


All Things Being Equal

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-20
Updated: 2005-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 98,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.





	1. All Things Being Equal

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

THE WEST WING  
WASHINGTON, D.C. 

The whole world watched it happen. 

By the time C.J. Cregg stepped up before the White House Press Corps, the barest facts had already swept around the globe. Of course, to many minds there is no such thing as too much information - especially in a disaster. Still, _not_ knowing is far worse. Those most tenacious minds of all - or at least the ones with the most privileged clearance - crammed into the West Wing Press Room for what promised to be the scoop of the year. 

"Will you tone it down a bit?" their hostess shouted over the constant clamor of reporters vying for her attention. "If I can't hear myself, _you_ certainly can't!" 

The hubbub did lessen, a bit... but only a bit. This was obviously way too big a story for these news-hounds to show much in the way of patience. 

The Press Secretary's demeanor agreed with their assessment. Normally she was unequaled in maintaining her aplomb despite the ugliness of the news she sometimes had to report. Today she looked rather less composed, despite her best efforts to hide it. No one present could accuse her of losing control, even now. However, neither could they deny that for the first time in a _long_ time she'd really been rattled. 

The only other time they'd seen her anything like this - was right after the Newseum shooting three years earlier. 

"I've watched the video playback more than any of you." Somehow, her voice stayed level and firm. "But I still don't have that much information, because even COMSUBPLANT doesn't have all the information either. For those of you who aren't too big on military acronyms, that's Commander, Submarine Forces, U.S. Atlantic Fleet. They'll make the final decision on the course of action to take. Whatever I get from them, I'll pass on to you. The only details I'm not allowed to share are solely of a detailed technical nature, as I'm sure you can all understand. Defense _has_ to be reticent on certain subjects." 

"Including this one?" someone challenged from the back rows. 

C.J. glared, her vision aflame, her tone chilly. "That was uncalled-for. This is a national emergency. Of _course_ we'll keep you up to date, as much as humanly possible." 

Even though she had hidden news items from this corps before, for political reasons, and even though all of them knew that, nobody doubted her today. 

A female reporter standing against the side wall sprang forward. "C.J., please answer one question up front. Can you at least confirm that the President is still alive?" 

The entire room went stock-still, every breath held. 

It would be a safe bet that all of the viewers watching any of the represented TV stations did the same. 

So did the tall woman behind the podium. 

Her carefully-regulated poise, already shaken, cracked another inch. She had to pause for a deep inhalation. That told everyone what she was going to say before she said it. 

From all appearances, it genuinely hurt to articulate her reply. 

"No. I can't." 

GROTON SHIPYARDS, "TRIDENT" NUCLEAR SUBMARINE BASE  
THAMES RIVER, JUST NORTH OF NEW LONDON, CONNECTICUT  
ONE HOUR EARLIER 

The large black helicopter hovered majestically over its destination before beginning the final approach, its dual rotors a blur of speed and power. 

"There it is!" Jed Bartlet leaned closer to his daughter and pointed out the window beside her. He craned for a better view himself, positively beaming with excitement. 

Eleanor obligingly glanced at the long dark shape far below, unmistakable, docked alone at center stage, surrounded by water and activity... but her delight was far less than her father's. "The latest in killing machines. Lovely." 

"Don't think of it as war technology. Don't even think of it as _defense_ technology. Think of it as an example of humanity's never-ending quest for knowledge and perfection. Our military leads the world in innovation." 

Ellie rolled her eyes and did not reply. "Marine One" was quieter inside than almost any other chopper in existence, but the twin sets of blades directly overhead still generated enough noise to penetrate even this specially-shielded cabin, forcing its occupants to speak up. That gave her a convenient excuse not to answer. 

The President didn't let her silence deter him. "There's something about submarines that's a lot like being an astronaut. It's a whole other world under the sea." 

The First Daughter glanced at him askance, in no small surprise. "You like the idea of being sealed inside a tin can and dunked in the ocean?" 

"It'd be worth it to explore like that. The power, the grace..." Latent claustrophobia notwithstanding - and his closest family members knew he suffered from that to some degree, although even his wife might not have been able to say just how much - he sounded quite sold on the concept. A kid in a candy store could scarcely have been more thrilled. 

Seated behind them, the three accompanying White House staff members did their best to act oblivious of this personal conversation. Charlie Young had the hardest time being convincing, since he sat closest to his boss and couldn't possibly miss a word. Toby Ziegler stared into space, chin on hand, as dour as ever. Leo McGarry stayed hidden behind his newspaper, with the attitude of being at work even now. 

Seated in the tier behind _them,_ the two accompanying Secret Service agents did not move at all. Despite the fact that, until they stepped out of this flying strong box, bodyguards were rather superfluous, Ron Butterfield and his colleague maintained their eternal air of vigilance. 

The executive helicopter continued its lofty descent, as graceful as any manmade flying object could hope to be. 

Now Bartlet focused directly upon his middle daughter... and some of that eager joy faded, to be replaced by a deeper earnestness. "This is quite an opportunity for you." 

Ellie kept her gaze on the impressive view below: the base neatly laid out, a couple of other impressive-looking ships in nearby berths, the blue river sparkling in the sun. It enabled her to avoid his eyes. She sat somewhat stiffly, and not just because of the seat belt. "You don't think it'll be too big a let-down that they're not getting the First Lady after all?" 

"Well, they'd better not say so." For a moment her father looked every inch the affronted patriarch, ready and able to defend his family honor. "They're still getting the most gracious lady on the base." 

"Not much competition there; I'll be the _only_ female on the base." 

"Don't count on it; equal opportunity is on the rise, even on the front lines." 

Ellie's attitude remained distinctly lukewarm, not playing into this merry mood. 

The President waited another couple of beats. When she showed no further sign of contributing to the discussion, his jocular air subsided. Even so, he was never one to easily admit defeat. "I'm glad you came." 

His daughter shrugged. She didn't come across as just a spoiled brat, but unlike her parents or her sisters she had never possessed the gift of pretending to be interested when she simply wasn't. "Mom asked me to stand in, and I agreed." 

Bartlet's eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm beginning to wonder if there was an ulterior motive to your mother's invitation. Are you trying to build up a tolerance to me?" A faint breath of amusement colored his words... but there could have been quite a bit more tint. 

Ellie sighed, withdrawing just a fraction more. "More like practicing to be more sociable," she admitted quietly. And she didn't outright deny her father's theory, either. 

Neither could she deny the subtle tension between them. 

Neither could he. "Look, I know you're not militarily inclined..." 

"That makes two of us." She was careful to keep any sharpness at bay, and to inject a trace of genuine humor - or at least pleasantness. With mixed success. 

"We have a duty to uphold, and there are some loyal seamen here who don't deserve to be disappointed." An edge crept into the President's tone. He was starting to lose patience with this persistent moodiness. 

Ellie picked up on that growing frustration, made more pronounced by the enthusiasm he'd displayed earlier, and she worked harder to keep things civil. It shouldn't be so difficult to at least appear to be enjoying oneself. "Don't worry, Dad. I know how things work." 

"I know you do." And her father meant that. She had been the daughter of a public figure for most of her life. No matter how rocky her relationship with him might be, Ellie understood how to conduct herself around others. 

With scarcely a bump, "Marine One" settled upon the landing pad. 

Bartlet had no further time to spare for this taut conversation, no matter how much he might have wished to iron it out. Still, he did take one more moment to add a corollary. "I really am glad you came." 

This time Ellie turned, drawn by the simple, sincere, though tentative, note. 

The rotors had already begun to decelerate, their noise dropping rapidly. One of the Marines up front exited from the forward crew door, carrying a squat stepping stool. He placed this stool under the central hatch with the precision of long experience, then slid that hatch sideways to reveal a second panel inside - this one emblazoned with the Great Seal. 

It wasn't just a panel; it was a reinforced set of steps, hinged at the bottom and recessed into the chopper's thick wall. It lowered like a drawbridge, stopping just inches above that stool. The Marine drew back at once and stood at attention. 

The first person to disembark was not, of course, the President. A faceless man in a dark business suit and sunglasses, his name unknown yet his occupation obvious, quickly descended the steps and gave the whole area a competent once-over. He took in the honor guard of sailors, the gathered officers, the military band nearby, the knot of press contained to one side, the other black-suited agents scattered alertly around, the new vessel's tall conning tower beyond, the flags flapping overhead, and probably the number of seagulls in the sky - knowing the thoroughness of the Secret Service. He didn't actually nod in satisfaction, but his subsequent strides away from the executive helicopter signaled the all-clear. 

Then Jed Bartlet appeared, to be greeted by the opening measures of "Hail to the Chief." "Marine One" did not have the sheer space of "Air Force One," nor was its doorway as wide or its functional staircase as sturdy, so he stepped down at once, briskly returning the Marine's sharp salute. This was a military display, after all, not a publicity event; he offered only one general wave of acknowledgment, mostly to the ever-present cameras, though his smile was as bright as always. Then he extended a hand back towards the portal, palm up. 

Ellie moved into view, rather less confident but not shrinking. She accepted her father's hand with only a little self-consciousness, and he guided her down as a gentleman should. Then he tucked her arm in his, and together they walked along the red carpet. Towards the officers awaiting them, and towards the cameras already clicking away. 

All but unnoticed, Ron slipped out next and took his place right behind them. Leo, Toby and Charlie followed, attracting even less attention. Three more agents from the ground force glided in and completed the procession. 

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs stood tall at the head of the welcome committee, the buttons and braid and decorations of his dress blues gleaming. As official host and representative of all sailors present, only he was to salute; he did so when his Commander-in-Chief was one stride away. Their timing coincided perfectly with the last bar of band music. 

"Mr. President." 

Bartlet had to release Ellie to salute in turn, mirroring that crisp gesture exactly. "Mr. Chairman. Thanks for inviting us here today. How are you?" 

Admiral Percy Fitzwallace didn't quite smile, but the whites of his eyes flashed even brighter. "Well, sir, I was doing just fine... until presented with this unexpected formality, rather than your usual effort to join the common ranks." Even though there was little chance of being overheard by the press from here, he had to know his leader very well to indulge in such a joke at such a moment. "Are you feeling all right yourself?" 

The President grinned even wider, not in the least fazed by this dry humor. "I didn't want to embarrass you in front of your own boys. Or me in front of my daughter." He half-turned. "You remember Eleanor?" 

"Of course." Fitz extended his hand to Ellie. In fact he literally bowed from his considerable height, as polite as anyone could possibly be - more polite than any protocol could demand, in fact - and now he _did_ smile. "It's good to have you here as well, Miss Bartlet." 

Ellie's fixed public mask softened at once. Naturally she enjoyed the sweet gesture of unusual deference from her father today, even if he was the most powerful man in the world; that means more to any daughter than a stranger's regard ever could. But to be shown such esteem by this four-star admiral, the highest ranking officer of the strongest military force in human history... Despite the staggering authority and the enormous respect he commanded, he still went out of his way to treat this young woman with the utmost courtesy. 

Now Fitz took a moment to look past both Bartlets. He met the eye of Leo, whom he worked with regularly in the White House Situation Room, Toby, whom he ran across often enough in the West Wing as one of Bartlet's closest advisors, and Charlie, whom he saw all the time as an executive shadow. All three men nodded back; no words were needed. Ron, whom the Admiral had also met more than once for obvious reasons, was looking in every other direction, scanning for trouble no matter how unlikely. 

The Chairman started the tour. "If you'll step this way, Mr. President." 

"You bet." Bartlet waved Ellie to walk beside him, not trail in his wake as though she ranked beneath him. Which she did, but he refused to showcase it. "You're really looking forward to the commissioning next month, aren't you, Fitz?" 

"Whatever gave you that impression, sir?" 

"You're as proud of this new ship as any father ever could be. You always are. I'm an authority on that feeling myself." 

Glancing idly around and trying not to look bored, Ellie turned back, her attention captured despite herself. 

"I think my fleet slightly outnumbers yours, Mr. President." Somehow, the Admiral still kept a straight face. 

"Aw, my girls can take your entire fleet any day of the week." Bartlet didn't look right at his middle daughter, but that didn't diminish the strength of his words: a conviction that resonated despite the amusement. Ellie positively blushed. 

"No doubt about that whatsoever, sir." 

As though the truth of this statement could not possibly be denied or misconstrued as sarcasm, Fitz swung smoothly into business. They had approached the ruler-straight line of assembled crewmen, each in pristine summer white uniforms and stiffly at attention. 

"Mr. President, may I present Captain Trudeau, base commander." 

Where Fitz was dark, this bedecked officer was pale, even to the silver hair and beard. "It's an honor, sir. Welcome to Trident." 

Bartlet couldn't resist. "Uh-oh; is King Neptune going to drop by as well?" 

Fitz answered first, saving the base CO from having to scrabble for balance. "We'll send him an invitation right away." 

"Can't have _him_ feeling left out," their leader mused, grinning. "Besides, it'll add some blue blood to the party!" Then in an eye-blink he switched back to his official role. "Well, Captain, I can see that you run a tight ship here - on shore _and_ on board." 

"Thank you, sir." Trudeau straightened even more with pride. "We've arranged a tour of the facilities for you after you've seen the new boat." 

"Sounds great." 

Fitz moved a few steps to his left. "Sir, this is the plank crew that will be taking the 'Callanan' on her shakedown cruise." He introduced the three ranking officers. "Commander Hyde, his executive officer Lieutenant Lung, and Master Chief Petty Officer Tolkinski." 

Each man saluted in turn. Hyde stood at least three inches shorter than his subordinates; Lung sported elegant Oriental features; Tolkinski, the tallest, was a startling blond. 

The President returned these salutes and then offered a handshake to ease the stiffness. "Good to meet you. The Admiral and the Captain must think highly of you all, to place their newest toy in your hands." He hesitated, as though debating whether to indulge his love for obscure information or his private imp - probably the latter - then turned back to the Commander. The indicated spelling on his uniform nametag seemed to settle the matter. "Say, I know a guy named _Edward_ Hyde. Any relation?" 

Ellie raised a hand to her mouth, covering her grin. Leo gazed heavenward, Toby glanced sideways, and Charlie looked down - all three in hopeless exasperation. Anyone who knew this Chief Executive as well as they did would have picked up on that jovial note, with or without the literary connection. 

The sub's acting captain could not have perceived this boyish playfulness as clearly, but perhaps he didn't need to. "Yes, sir, I think I know whom you mean." His tone was a little resigned. "He and Dr. Jekyll don't get along very well." 

Bartlet had the grace to look contrite. "Sorry. Bet you hear that a lot." 

"Now and then, sir," Hyde admitted. "You were more subtle than just about anyone else to date, though." 

"Oh, well, I guess that's _something_..." 

THE WEST WING 

"DONNA!" Josh Lyman sailed into the bullpen area, oozing an almost noxious miasma of self-importance. "What's the next crisis that needs licking? I'm invincible today." 

"Well, we'll cure that in a hurry," his assistant retorted from her desk, barely looking up as he passed. 

The Deputy Chief of Staff ignored her barb, as usual, and kept going with his head high, as though she were quite beneath him rather than his right arm in truth. However, when he passed the office of the Press Secretary, what he saw made him brake short. 

C.J. slouched in her chair, staring at the TV consoles on her office wall. Watching the news coverage of the President in Connecticut... and looking for all the world like a sulky child. 

That total aberration from the norm drew Josh inside. "All right, what PR disaster is about to hit us now?" he assumed automatically. 

"The next briefing." She didn't honor him with so much as a glance. "I'm going to announce that the White House is discriminating against white female Press Secretaries from California with a Berkeley degree who are over twenty-nine in age and over five-ten in height." 

He exhaled, in an effort to sound sympathetic, but it came across as merely tolerant. "You're still mad that you didn't get to go." 

"I was so looking forward to this," C.J. fumed, still trying to drill holes in the lucky ones on the TV screen. "The rest of them could have cared less. Leo was Air Force, not Navy; and I happen to know that Toby gets _seasick!_ Now me - I've been fascinated with ships of all kinds for most of my life. I'd have gotten so much out of it." 

Josh shook his head, abandoning all attempts to be solicitous. "You've been watching too much 'Star Trek'." 

She threw him such a baleful look that he actually stepped back. "Come a little closer, Josh. I dearly want to wring your neck, but you're not worth getting out of my chair even for _that_ pleasure." 

"Leo has the military experience, and Toby wrote the speech. They were the logical choices." Now Josh sounded like he wanted to appease a dangerous adversary. 

It didn't work. "Plus the minor fact that they know better than to leave you with free rein around here. Which effectively demotes me to the status of baby-sitter." 

Now he looked totally insulted. "What - I'm going a _great_ job! Just ask Donna!" 

"I did. That's how I know." 

Josh aimed his injured pride towards his assistant. "That traitor. I'm gonna have fun planning her punishment. I even have the clout now to do it, too." 

C.J. sighed wearily. "Your power trip is most definitely helping my mood here." 

"It's a big chair, but somebody's got to sit in it." 

"Which might say something for the size of the ass it contains." 

"Man, you try to cheer a person up..." Josh sauntered out, as though he had come to perform a significant community service and been thoroughly rebuffed. 

Then he stuck his head back in. "By the way, they have height restrictions in submar - " 

Instantly C.J. snatched up her desk stapler; large and solid, it would have made a dangerous missile indeed. The only reason she _didn't_ whip it at her intended target was because he ducked out too fast. 

On the way past Donna's desk, Josh issued a brief, ominous bulletin. " _You_ are on bread and water for six weeks." 

Or it _would_ have been ominous, if she'd acted the least bit concerned. "Fine. The Perrier is getting expensive these days. I could use a fresh supply." 

Fortunately for him, he was moving fast enough to pretend to be out of earshot. 

From the other direction, Will Bailey stepped into view just in time to catch this exchange. Still a comparative novice to the anarchy of the West Wing and the peculiarities of its denizens, he couldn't hide his wonder. 

"Um... your boss makes a habit out of threatening you?" he inquired softly once Josh had disappeared from view. 

Donna grinned. "All the time. He also never hesitates to barge in where even politicians fear to tread." At Will's rising eyebrows, she clarified. "C.J.'s still upset that she didn't get to go to Connecticut today." 

The newly-minted Deputy Communications Director digested this. "Well, she could have had my ticket, if I'd been _given_ a ticket." 

Donna blinked. "You weren't even invited? You've got as much military experience as anyone else here!" 

He reddened a bit, in modesty or embarrassment or both. "Not unless you credit me with the total accumulated service of my whole family. I'm just a reservist. Besides, I'm still a bit new here for away missions, family connections notwithstanding." 

"Point." Donna studied him in a new light. "You should wear your uniform more often." 

Pause. "I don't usually get to decide that... but why?" 

Her shoulders rose in a slightly coquettish shrug. "Just because." Then, before he could feel even more uncomfortable, she changed the subject. "Say, can you spare another minute? Even Josh has more military knowledge than I do, although that's still not saying much." 

Will allowed a fleeting grin. "Sure. I know how interesting this stuff is, even if you have no desire to enlist." 

She sat back. "Well, you pick up a fair bit from the news. I do know that this is the latest in the 'Ohio' class of nuclear attack sub..." 

"Not attack sub; missile boat. They're called 'boomers' in sub slang. They aren't as fast as the attack subs, but they have a greater depth range. Besides the usual compliment of torpedoes, their primary arsenal is made up of ship-to-shore ballistic guided missiles." He pulled these details out of the air without even slowing for breath. 

"Goes to show you have to ask the expert. I guess even the Air Force learns about ships, huh?" Donna smiled, briefly. "And this is the most advanced submarine yet. As if we don't have a big enough and _lethal_ enough navy already." She sighed. "So, do they still break a bottle of champagne over the bow?" 

"No, that's only for launching civilian ships. And this isn't the launching, or even the commissioning. It's a _pre_ -commissioning: after the launch and fitting out, but prior to the plank tour." At her blank look, Will clarified. "Uh, that's the shakedown cruise. A prize crew puts the boat through what they call the 'angles and dangles.' They have to make sure everything works and _everything_ is secured - nothing to roll around. Assuming it passes, the prize crew hands the 'plank' over to the acting captain. Then the sub is loaded with her missiles and commissioned for duty. That's a separate ceremony, anywhere from a month to a year later." 

"Oh. So she's not armed right now?" 

"Oh, you can bet there are torpedoes on board; no naval vessel sets sail without the means to defend herself. But they don't want the warheads anywhere near the President." 

"I was wondering about that! It must be risky for him to tour _any_ of these ships, much less a submarine." 

"That's why. Besides, they sure won't allow the press aboard a commissioned sub - not after all that state-of-the-art hardware has been fully installed and operational. The media event has to be in advance." Will leaned back against the doorframe. While on this familiar topic, he displayed an easy confidence that even after some months in the White House rarely came out around his fellow senior staffers. "It's quite a PR opportunity for the President to take a pre-commissioning walk-through like this. Toby and C.J. endorsed it at once." 

Donna nodded in growing comprehension. "And when those two agree that fast... Of course, military duties like this are part of the President's official role as Head of State." 

"Right on. He's allowed on board the boat if she's still in dock, if she hasn't been on her plank tour, and _if_ she hasn't been commissioned yet. It's what he's here for." 

Then Will caught himself, further endorsed by Donna's attempt at a sharp glower. "Well, _one_ of the things he's here for, anyway." 

She giggled. "That's better." Pause. "I guess they'd never let him actually ride in one, huh?" 

Will didn't hesitate at all. "Not a chance." 

"Don't tell him that; he'll want to go all the more." They shared a knowing grin at their Chief Executive's quirky nature. "I doubt I could stand being confined like that myself." 

"Seconded," Will said slowly. "If they _had_ asked me to go along today, I'd have declined. I know nuclear vessels well enough to stay away from them." 

Donna's intrigue became apprehension. "Are accidents... common?" 

"Thankfully, there have been very few." For some reason, his sober attitude did not lighten up at this positive fact. "But when nuclear accidents _do_ happen, they always happen on a grand scale." 


	2. All Things Being Equal 2

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

TRIDENT 

"The Irish rebellion of 1916 broke out right in the middle of World War I. It changed the entire socio-political landscape in Ireland, from a seeking for Home Rule to a desire for total independence." 

Bartlet stood on an elevated ship's maintenance platform, addressing the rows of sailors and officers lined up neatly below, as well as the cameras to one side. His voice carried powerfully through the PA system and filled the fresh riverside air. 

"The Home Rule party had encouraged many of their young lads to fight in the British army, in order to prove to Britain that Ireland was loyal and therefore deserved self-government. As a whole, Irish regiments served very well in the War. Their motives for joining up arose not only from politics, but also from the same causes that have people joining the military even today - poverty, a desire to escape their conditions, and maybe a yen for the romance and excitement that war was perceived to offer. As usual, it's only after one is committed to combat that one learns the truth behind _that_ illusion. All of you here know that better than I do." 

No matter what he talked about or how far back in time he went, this man always seemed to infuse his subjects with immediacy and passion. 

"Home Rule dominance was essentially scuppered by the outbreak of the Great War, giving way to the Nationalist movement, so those soldiers that survived came back to a country about to embark on a war of independence. They became victims of a radical shift in the political climate. Their society didn't exactly ostracize them, but had little understanding or empathy for what they had experienced - an experience of veterans returning to civilian society anywhere. Even worse, they had been robbed of their original justification for joining. Also, the demobbed soldiers had another familiar problem to deal with on their return - poverty. They could, of course, have re-enlisted into the British army, but then they would have risked being asked to serve in Ireland itself, against their own people. Conversely, if they stuck with their neighbors, then they'd be fighting against the same army in which they'd just served." 

Even for those in the audience who had no background or interest in Irish history, the eloquence and feeling behind the President's words captivated them all. 

"Padraig Callanan was born near Galway, Ireland in 1898. He signed up as soon as he could, fought in France, rose to Warrant Officer, and lived to regret it. When he returned, he found himself caught both in the poverty trap and in the center of domestic conflict. Because of his military experience he came under no little pressure to join the fight for independence. But he could not bring himself to turn around and fight the army he'd just served in with distinction. He emigrated here while still a young man, settled in Cleveland, anglicized his first name to 'Patrick'... and the very next thing he did was join the United States Navy. He faced a lot of opposition during his career here as well, and it is all the more to his credit that he achieved the rank of Rear Admiral on pure merit, hard work, and undeniable skill. He'd already seen and experienced horrors enough for a lifetime, yet he chose to sign up again. Sure, it granted him opportunities, and he was no doubt grateful for that. But even more, he must have had a love for the service, for the comradeship it offered, and for the ideal of freedom it represents. I really admire that dedication, that desire to serve... and I know all of you do as well." 

Behind and below this makeshift podium, the President's entourage waited \- with varying degrees of patience - for their boss to finish. 

Toby paced nonstop. "If I'd been that guy, I'd have stayed in the army," he muttered to no one. "I know the trenches were no picnic... but a continent is _somewhat_ less likely to give underfoot. Not like ocean." 

Eleanor, the only one close enough to overhear, stood gazing out towards the Thames, a light spring breeze gently swirling her skirt and her long hair. She looked even less engrossed in the speech than Toby did. Now she glanced his way in full sympathy. 

"Why am I here?" he went on - not fearfully, but distractedly. "I don't even _like_ ships. And I _especially_ don't like submarines." 

This time the President's daughter elected to comment. "You could've stayed at the White House and let C.J. come instead." 

The Director of Communications ran a palm up his forehead. "She asked to switch with me. She almost _begged_ to switch with me. I should've listened to her. Why didn't I listen to her?" 

"Because you had to hear my father's speech firsthand. The speech you wrote." Ellie kept her tone fairly neutral, but the implication was still there: _You have only yourself to blame._

Slowly, darkly, Toby turned towards her. She deflected his frown with a disarming grin, in which there was a strong element of her father's imp of mischief. Making an effort, he curbed his retort. Even leaving aside what the President would do to him if he obeyed the impulse to engage in a fiery argument with a DPOTUS, Ellie herself would meet him head-on - and maybe even win. She might not enjoy combat for its own sake quite as much as the rest of her family, but she did possess the Bartlet love for a good debate... and the Bartlet stubbornness. And a quiet, subtle edge all her own. 

Leo interrupted this standoff, striding over and snapping his cellular phone shut with finality. "Well, there hasn't been a catastrophe back home yet, or anywhere else that we know of. Leastwise, nothing worthy of derailing an executive schedule." 

Toby sniffed. "Let's see how long _that_ lasts. I'm not taking bets." 

Charlie arrived moments later, leading another young black man with a camera bag over his shoulder and a camera around his neck. "This is Johnny DeSoto. C.J. selected him to photograph the tour." 

Leo looked the newcomer over. "You know that the DoD has to examine any pictures you get before you can publish them, right?" 

Even though he was at least as tall and probably more muscular than any of the four gathered around him, DeSoto looked decidedly nervous. Toby had shifted his annoyance from Ellie to this convenient new arrival. Leo could be even more intimidating if he so chose. And just a few yards away was the President of the United States. 

The smile Ellie gave him actually hindered more than it helped. 

He swallowed. "Yeah, I know. I'll concentrate on the people, not the equipment." 

"Good." The White House Chief of Staff checked his wristwatch, his highly-organized mind already moving on to other things. 

Above them, Bartlet was wrapping up. "And so it is with pride that we name this fine new vessel the 'USS Callanan.' It will be a tribute to one of our own lesser-known World War II heroes, to the forgotten Irish soldiers of a past age, to the countless workers in Irish shipyards and their expertise in ship-building, and to all the Irish immigrants that helped build America itself." 

Amid hearty applause from his uniformed listeners, and even from some of the gathered press, he waved and stepped down. His staffers closed in around him at once - with the Secret Service closing around them all. 

_Really_ nervous now, DeSoto hung back. Charlie kindly stayed near him. 

"Well done, sir," Toby offered first, deadpan as always. 

"I know you don't _really_ mean that, Toby." The President clapped him cheerfully on one shoulder. "But let's wait until we're on our way home before you tell me all the things I did wrong, okay?" 

Sigh. "Yes, sir." 

Searching for a more effusive accolade than that, their leader turned to the lone woman in their midst. "So, Miss Universe, what do _you_ think?" He ran a hand through his thick, wind-ruffled hair. 

Ellie hesitated, clearly not expecting to be asked for an opinion, even as she dimpled a bit at the nickname. "Well, you'll have a lot of _non_ -Irish Americans mad at you." As if through a subliminal cue - or a hereditary one - she automatically tucked her own hair back into place. The two gestures were almost identical... and probably neither was aware of it. 

"To say nothing of Irish ultra-republicans on _both_ sides of the pond. But having people mad at me is hardly anything new." That depressing truth failed to dampen his spirits at all. "Besides, your mother has some Irish blood of her own, so I already know how to handle it." 

"With kid gloves," Ellie supplied, displaying both confidence and just a hint of sarcasm. 

"You got it." Bartlet's endearing smile proved irresistible, even for her. 

Leo waited quietly until his President's eye swung towards him, as he knew it would. He opted for a silent nod in reply, a voiceless reassurance that as of this moment he didn't have any political, national or _inter_ national bad news to impart. 

Fitzwallace, approaching with Captain Trudeau and the sub's three senior officers in tow, wasn't quite so reticent. "Way to go, sir. You do know your homework." 

"It pays to be a teacher, Fitz. After you retire, you should consider it. With due respect to everyone else here, it's the best job in the world." Bartlet had no trouble poking fun at himself as well. "Even better than the job I have now!" Then he just could not resist dragging in a few more targets. "On the other hand, it also pays to have speechwriters - they're the ones who _do_ the homework for me!" 

Toby exhaled quietly, but did not comment. Aloud, anyway. 

The Chairman took all of this banter in stride, as usual. "Whatever you say, sir. We're turning you over to Commander Hyde now. He'll conduct the tour below deck." 

"Fine. Lead on, Commander. We landlubbers will try not to get your brand-new ship dirty." 

"Boat, sir." That amendment had been absolutely automatic, almost unconscious; the distinction between "ship" and "boat" was too deeply ingrained into the mind of every sub-driver. Then Hyde squared his shoulders in mute apology for daring to correct his Commander-in-Chief. "And I'm not worried, Mr. President," he added hurriedly, no doubt hoping no one would notice his gaffe. "This way, please." 

The party of three officers, three politicians, one First Daughter, one body man, one reporter and five Secret Service agents started towards the towering black steel pillar before them. 

"That was a fine speech, sir," Hyde said as they walked side by side. "Not many know the Gaelic form of 'Patrick.'" 

"Oh, I couldn't pass up an opportunity like that!" Bartlet announced with satisfaction. Following close behind, Leo rolled his eyes. "It's an interesting name. A lot of foreign names are; too bad so many people felt obliged to change them as soon as they arrived here. Many still do, in fact." The President adopted a shrewd look, bringing his skill at character evaluation to the fore. "Do you perchance boast some Irish roots yourself?" 

"Grandparents, sir." 

"I love it. A brand-new, all-American vessel... with a base commander from France, a CO from Ireland, a first mate from China, and a CPO from Russia - if their names are any clue. The Great American Melting Pot at work!" 

"Agreed, sir. It was my mother's family who first told me about Admiral Callanan. He took a public stand for the Irishmen he fought with, the ones who didn't emigrate." 

"It's sad. Their contribution was totally forgotten. Of course, like all social history, there are different ways to interpret everything. This has only really been acknowledged in the past five years or so. The White House is finally taking steps - long overdue ones, I'll admit." There was a reason why these details had not found their way into the official speech. 

"But still _welcome_ steps, Mr. President." 

This time Leo couldn't hold back a comment of his own. His volume remained low, as though he wasn't quite sure he should take part in this conversation yet felt too strongly about it to be silent... and the words came across as more than a little cynical. "Anyone else see a parallel to the way 'Nam vets were treated here at home? By their own people." 

Protocol could have jumped on the Chief of Staff for addressing such a sensitive political issue at such a non-political time. Diplomats might have frowned in displeasure; nationalists might have provoked a fight. Leo had kept it quiet enough to give Bartlet the option of pretending that he hadn't heard, if he chose not to go there. Instead, The Man seized upon this observation at once, always happy to have additional input. 

"Leo's right on the money. He's vaguely Irish himself - and a soldier to boot, so he knows better than to buy into the romantic image of a struggle for independence or anything else. _And_ he served in Vietnam. You can get seriously discouraged when you see how little had changed between World One and then. We've still got some hard work ahead to _keep_ things changing, for the better." 

Hyde spoke for all of them. "Yes, _sir_." 

By now they had arrived at the edge of the dock and the ladder running up the streamlined submarine's very side. From such close range this charcoal vessel looked more enormous than ever, despite its total lack of sharp corners or viewing ports or projecting instruments, and despite its visible area being far smaller than almost any surface ship in the American fleet. 

A straight line of select sailors stood watch on the exterior deck itself. The one on the extreme end brought forth a lanyard with a silver boatswain's whistle and ceremoniously piped the President aboard. All of the others snapped a salute in unison. 

The boat's commander claimed his traditional right to make the vocal announcement. "'USS Callanan' is now 'Navy One'," he bellowed proudly, proclaiming to Groton Shipyard and to the world that the Commander-in-Chief of the mightiest military force on earth had arrived. 

One by one the executive party ascended the curving hull's curved ladder, stepped aboard the flat deck and then climbed down through the central deck hatch. MCPO Tolkinski remained outside with the line of crewmen - as did three of the five bodyguards, who now mounted their own guard. These newer subs might be roomy by some standards, but there was no logic in cramming more people into such close quarters than absolutely necessary - even the United States Secret Service. Even for the President himself. Too many bodies (and guns) in a cramped (and already secured) area create more risk than protection. 

Standing at a distance, Fitz and Trudeau waited until the last of the guests had disappeared below. Then the Captain made a hand signal to a junior officer nearby. "Stand easy." The rows of sailors on the parade square might as well relax, pending the President's reappearance. All of them had nothing to do now but wait. 

As this order was relayed to the troops, the Admiral turned away... and headed towards the roped-off area reserved for the press. 

At once every camera lens swung towards him. No one called out his name, however. Sure, you do that to the White House Press Secretary, who selects one reporter at a time to speak... and you might even risk it with the President at a particularly energetic Q&A session... but you don't accost the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. 

"How is everyone doing?" he asked affably. "Not baking in this sun?" 

They generally replied that they were fine. Of course, _he_ wore the full, dark uniform. 

"Good. Just so you all know, the tour will last a bit more than an hour." 

"Excuse me, sir," one man piped up. "We've been told that it was to be only about forty-five minutes." 

"Well, that was what we originally scheduled. The President is getting the VIP tour: C&C, weapons bunkers, crew mess... the 'flashy' stuff." The Admiral's mouth twitched, fighting a smirk. "But if you people knew the President as well as I do, you'd know that he can always find something to talk about. And nothing kills time faster." 

Several chuckled. None challenged that claim. 

"Anyway, since I'm as bored as you are right now, I thought _I'd_ kill some time, and offer to answer some questions." 

A forest of hands shot up. Rarely indeed did a golden opportunity like this manifest itself. 

"Just remember that there are some questions I _can't_ answer. And you can interpret that any way you like." 

NAVY ONE  
BERTH 44, TRIDENT 

"This is a Guided Missile Submarine; designation SSGN. Now, there are three different types of sub. SSN refers to attack boats. They're the fast ones, the hunters..." 

"Los Angeles and Seawolf class for the United States," Bartlet interjected. "Akula/Bars and Kilo for the Russians." 

Hyde nodded as they walked along side by side. They were the same height, these two, and almost the same build as well. And they both projected a quiet air of unmistakable authority. "Correct, sir. SSBN is for the standard missile boats. We like to call them 'boomers'." 

"Corresponding to the Russian Typhoon and Oscar." 

"Yes, _sir._ " If the Commander found his leader's knowledge about such naval details unusual, he didn't let on. And perhaps it wasn't so unusual after all, despite the fact that Jed Bartlet had never held a rank of his own. Everyone knew what a fiend for trivia he was. 

"This new modified and refurbished 'Ohio' class is the third kind: a guided missile/Special Ops boat. She's for new mission status, not just missile patrols." 

"'New mission status': another fancy term for spying. But that's quite all right." 

Hyde checked briefly. "Uh - yes, sir. Now, all of our boats are built by the Electric Boat Company -" 

" _Electric?_ And here I thought these things ran on _nuclear_ energy." 

Perhaps someone had warned Hyde in advance about his principal guest's taste for wit; this time, he remained unfazed. "I'll tell them that you think they should update their name, Mr. President. The boats are constructed here at Trident, but the Atlantic Fleet is based at King's Bay, Georgia, and the Pacific Fleet at Bangor, Washington." 

"But there are other home ports along both coasts, aren't there?" 

"Yes, sir. Those ports are where the boats pull in for leave and restocking." 

"While we're on this, I've been thinking that it sounds downright disrespectful to refer to a naval vessel as anything other than a 'ship.' To me, a boat is a canoe." 

"I know what you mean, sir, and after my own spell of duty on a destroyer I took some time to get used to it myself. But for reasons passing logic, surface vessels are ships and subs are boats. It's traditional." 

The tour proceeded through empty gray corridors, past closed hatches and narrow doorframes leading into tiny rooms of uncertain purpose. These confining passages forced them to walk two abreast at most: the lieutenant leading, the Commanding Officer and the Commander-in-Chief right behind him, Ron and Ellie next, followed by Leo and Toby, then Charlie and DeSoto, with the second Secret Service agent bringing up the rear. The reporter had his camera almost glued to his face, snapping pictures of everyone who so much as half-turned in his direction. 

The key words for submarine design are austerity and functionality. Everything was the same bleak color, no extraneous adornment to be seen, yet new and shiny, with each item in its exact spot. 

What really stood out, even more than the pure economy of space, was the silence. They encountered no human traffic, and heard no voices. No equipment appeared to be running; nothing clanked or chirped or hummed. Even their footfalls could not be heard; the deck muffled every impact. The only sounds at all appeared to be their breathing and the almost inaudible rustle of their clothes as they walked. 

"It's so quiet," Toby murmured, constantly glancing around as though he expected something horrible to spring upon them from out of this eerie setting. 

"It has to be." It was so quiet that Hyde, several lengths ahead, still heard him. "No sounds whatsoever are allowed on an active boat, even when it's only in dock. All plating, all hatches, even the head, are designed to be _completely_ silent. Any noise at all would interfere with our sonar - and it would also alert any other boat or ship hunting _us._ No one so much as drops a pencil on a boat being stalked." 

"And of course, water is a better conductor for sound than air," Bartlet just had to put in, ever eager to contribute to a discussion. 

"Very true, sir. The outer hull is treated with a special rubber-like 'anechoic' coating to absorb sonar pulses from other ships. Oddly enough, nuclear engines are noisier than diesel or electric. So silence is imperative." 

The effect was downright spooky, like a haunted house. The visitors felt a strong urge to tiptoe and to whisper. If they stopped moving for a few seconds, they could feel underfoot the vibrations of powerful engines idling some distance off... but no matter how hard they listened they couldn't hear a thing. It seemed almost unnatural. 

Long used to this, Hyde continued his technical spiel. "The 'Callanan' is five hundred and sixty feet long and forty-two feet abeam, with a thirty-six-point-five-foot draft." 

"That makes for a submerged displacement of about eighteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty tons," Bartlet calculated with scarcely a pause. 

"Exactly right, Mr. President." Hyde sounded impressed that even a Nobel Laureate in Economics could arrive at such a figure so swiftly. "The plutonium reactor fuels two turbines that produce sixty thousand horsepower, and drive a single shaft." 

"Providing a speed of eighteen knots on the surface, and twenty-five knots submerged." 

This time the Commander paused, as though deciding that his leader must have checked out these details in advance. "Yes, sir." He managed not to sound affronted that anyone could know as much about this magnificent new vessel as her skipper. "There are twenty-four missile silos rising the full height of the boat, in two rows of twelve. One Harpoon cruise missile per silo. Two of the missile silos can also be used as airlocks for Special Operations troops to leave the boat in launch and recovery situations." 

"Ah, the Navy SEALs. Sea, air and land. Combat specialists." 

Leo shook his head, obviously wishing that their leader would hide his light under a bushel just _once._ The urge to show off _can_ be suppressed. 

Like a good sport, Hyde persevered. "Yes, sir. We can house sixty of them at a time. Meanwhile, the boat carries a full crew of seventeen officers, fifteen Petty Officers, and one hundred twenty-two enlisted. There are two rotating crews: Blue and Gold. This allows for minimum turnaround time at dock and maximum patrol time at sea. Cruises normally last six months." 

"Six _months?_ " Silent up until now, Ellie's surprise couldn't prevent her exclamation. 

Hyde nodded calmly. Maybe he welcomed a reaction other than the President's head-to-head competition. "Yes, ma'am." He treated her as though she were the First Lady herself. "That's nothing unusual in the Navy. And it's a busy time; every day there are missile drills and simulated strike operations, to keep the crew at a high state of operational readiness." 

"Six months of tossing on the sea..." Ellie could not wrap her brain around such a thought, so totally foreign to all she knew. 

"Eleanor needs to take the D.C. metro more often," her father teased. " _That_ would teach her to handle a pitching floor." As if he were an expert on public transit. Considering that he had private cars _and_ aircraft to take him _everywhere_... 

"Actually, sir, boats pitch a whole lot less than surface ships," Hyde pointed out, resisting a smile. "It has to be a _very_ large storm - close to hurricane status - before it can affect a boat cruising at a depth of five hundred feet or more." 

Ellie didn't seem reassured. "And you can't even see the sky all that time!" 

"No, but we dim the interior lights somewhat when it's supposed to be night. The human body needs at least an illusion of that basic biological anchor." 

"Commander, I think you've just shattered my personal dream to see my daughter enlist in the Submarine Force." Bartlet sounded quite serious, but not one person present believed him. 

Ellie settled for a long-suffering "Oh, Dad," clearly wishing he'd stop. 

He smirked at her. "Not even as Chief Medical Officer?" 

She just shook her head, but a smile crept forth all the same. 

Hyde next led them into the largest open area they'd yet seen on board. "This is Command and Control; C&C or just Conn for short. It's our version of the bridge on a surface ship. We can control every system in the boat from this room." 

Every inch of the inner bulkhead sported a solid mass of bright lights and display screens; no space at all had been wasted. Supportive railings circled just inside these control banks, obviously there for people to grab so that they could stay at their posts when the ride got rough. The central area included four tables, no doubt for navigational charts, but no chairs. This was a place where you worked on your feet. Only a select few positions on the perimeter merited seats: the helm officers, in front of the twin steering consoles; sonar stations; weapons control... and, of course, one for the captain. 

"Now here is the real ground-breaker," Hyde announced proudly. "Please note that there is no periscope island in the middle of the Conn. Instead we have two non-hull-penetrating Photonics Masts. The Officer of the Watch no longer stands and hangs onto the periscope, looking through a maze of mirrors, prisms, and lenses." He pointed to a particular panel near the captain's chair, with the largest displays of all. "Instead, the PMs contain several high-resolution color cameras that send visual images right here. It uses infrared to revolutionize the whole range-calculating process. And it's all accomplished covertly from under the sea. Nothing above surface to alert any observer." 

Ellie's mouth hung open, struck by both this totally non-traditional innovation and just the sheer amount of ultra-modern technology in such a condensed format. Her father emitted a low whistle of appreciation; even a total novice in naval warfare can grasp the point to such a tactical benefit. Leo surveyed it all with detached professional interest. Toby hung back, as though anxious to be first out the door and first back on deck. Even though the floor never moved, he did not look comfortable. 

DeSoto was the most agog of all. Charlie tapped him on one arm. "No photos in _here,_ " he whispered. The reporter agreed with a jerky nod, overwhelmed by the fact that he'd been allowed to just _see_ this marvel. 

Bartlet strolled over to the helm, unmistakable in its function: two seats, each with a large double-handled console set into the compartment's forward bulkhead and surrounded by controls. "So here's where you steer this thing, huh?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Biggest joystick I ever saw. And it takes _two_ of them?" 

"Every submarine needs two. One wheel controls the rudder at the stern: for direction, turning and surface running. The other is for the planes on the bow and the conning tower; they control depth, dive, and ascent." 

"Right - you work in three dimensions." 

"Correct, sir. Similar to aircraft, and unlike surface ships." Hyde sounded just a bit smug at this advantage his boat had over most other vessels. 

A pause fell while the President stared intently at the forward bulkhead, mere inches from his face, as though searching for one specific thing... but of course there was no view forward. 

Then, with an abrupt and totally unexpected jerk, he recoiled. Perspiration sprang out on his forehead and his eyes widened noticeably. 

Everyone stiffened to instant attention. 

"Dad?" Ellie moved to his side. 

So did Ron. "Mr. President?" 

From the rear, Charlie took a few anticipatory steps forward as well. 

In the sudden, strained silence Bartlet drew a deep breath, fighting for stability. 

"Whoa." His voice shook just a bit. "That feels so - _wrong._ " 

He glanced quickly about, seeing the walls and ceiling so close... 

Hyde tilted his head, frowning. "Sir?" 

It's bad enough to reveal your foibles before friends - but around strangers? Their President straightened, slamming himself back into full control, pushing down whatever had emerged from within. Personal pride, a touch of ego, and a strong sense of duty demanded no less. Everyone was watching him, their concern evident and mounting. 

He waved a dismissive hand. "You don't have so much as a windshield to look out and see where you're going. My staff will tell you that I can't even ride a bike without hitting something." As he no doubt intended, several people grinned at that. It would be harder for them to worry about him when he was cracking jokes. 

His tone hadn't leveled out completely, though, and he backed away another few steps. "The idea of not being able to see the road in front of you... I got a real chill for a moment. The guys sitting here have to drive purely on instruments. _Blind._

It _was_ a valid observation, and an unnerving one. All of the guests could feel their skin prickle at such a vivid image as their leader had clearly just experienced. Still, some of those present probably picked up the vibe that it wasn't lack of vision which had briefly overwhelmed him... but lack of space. Confining walls, around them all. 

Hyde might not have deciphered that personal aspect, but he willingly pursued the diversion. "It requires a lot of training, sir. And a lot of trust in your shipmates. The charts have to be exact, the sensors have to be precise to within a few feet, and every officer has to be able to read both correctly." 

Bartlet considered this. Slowly, he nodded; slowly, his tension eased some more. "Not so different from how we run the White House, I'm here to tell you." 

Leo permitted a soft smile of gratitude. Toby smiled as well, a real rarity for him, his own uneasiness forgotten. That had been an executive tribute to them and their colleagues back in D.C., no matter how subtly couched - or whatever distraction it may have provided. Charlie retreated again, confident that the moment of alarm had passed. 

Ellie, though - and Ron - held their places. Phobias, even latent ones, can explode without warning, they demand an instinctive and immediate response, and they can take some time to recess again. 

The President must have noticed their stances. Typically, he at once shifted the subject away from himself. "Commander, I've been meaning to ask you something. Are you hiding the bulk of your crew from us, or have we just scared them off?" Equally typical of him, he supplemented his smoke screen with humor. 

"They're all topside, sir," Hyde explained patiently. "There's no point in keeping them at their posts now, before we're ready to set sail even for the first time, and especially not during a guided tour when we need the extra room to show you around. As you've seen, we have to use our space very efficiently - almost obsessively. The only other crewman aboard right now is the SCRAM officer." 

"I've heard of that position. He baby-sits the reactor itself." 

"Right you are, sir. SCRAM is one of the oldest terms in nuclear reactor science. It stands for 'Safety Control Reactor Ax-Man.'" A few of his audience chuckled, but Hyde did not. He knew the dangerous reality first-hand. "It was given to the first man to handle the control rods for the first reactor in the early fifties. As long as the reactor's warm, he's on hand and ready - at a moment's notice - to drop those rods into place and send the nuclear reaction sub-critical. It's our most basic safety measure, and probably the most important. When it comes to reactors, the U.S. Navy is _the_ most paranoid in the world. And I make no excuses for that paranoia." 

"No argument from me, either. But speaking of safety issues, here's another question." Bartlet spun and glared at the muted groans around him. "Hey, we're all learning here! Someday you'll thank me." He swung back, not at all bothered by their lesser dedication to higher education, and probably missing the flashes of relief that he appeared to be totally back to normal. Besides, a good way to get his mind off the disconcerting and lingering sense of imprisonment was to keep talking about something else. Anything else. "I want to hear about an 'emergency blow.'" 

Ellie _really_ groaned this time. "He was watching 'The Hunt for Red October' the other night; can you tell?" 

Hyde accepted the dare - not that he had much choice in the matter. "Actually, the movie only got it half-right." 

"Really?" All previous unease had fled; the President was intrigued now. 

"They were _way_ too slow. An emergency blow is considered one of the greatest rides in the known universe. We're not talking about just a simple drop in ballast here. It's the one system in a boat that doesn't require power, for safety sake." The Commander pointed to a set of manual handles near the ceiling. "Turn those two valves, and supercompressed air is sent to the forward ballast tanks, the trim tanks _and_ the stern tanks. The boat is like a cork leaving a champagne bottle - ninety-degree ascent all the way up. At once." 

Toby paled at the thought. By contrast, Bartlet's blue eyes were sparkling. 

"Wow. Now that _would_ be fun!" Only he of all his companions thought so, judging by their expressions. "Does the sub really leap right out of the water when she breaches?" 

"Oh, yes, sir - to as much as half her length. There are two considerations, however, depending upon the condition of your boat. If you're still 'live,' you want to make sure you don't get a stern-up, because that would pull your screws out of the water. Great way to fry your transmission." 

"Uh-huh. And if it's a 'dead' boat? That has a nice ominous ring." 

"Then you have no power at all, and your only priority is to get to the surface any way you can, as _fast_ as you can. Once you're up, you just bob there and wait for help to arrive. The bottom line is, there's far less chance of rescue underwater." 

Bartlet rubbed his palms together in visible excitement. "Okay - I'm making my reservation right now. The day after I get out of office, I want to try that." 

This time Hyde hesitated, looking awkward. "I'm afraid I can't promise that, Mr. President. Civilians aren't normally permitted to sail on shakedown or training cruises." 

"Damn. Well, can I at least go with you guys for a more sedate spin sometime?" 

" _That_ might be doable." 

"Good! Up until now I didn't have one thing to look forward to when my term ends." Bartlet sounded as happy as though this had made his whole day. 

Perhaps a bit _too_ happy? Considering how he had broken into a sweat of fear less than two minutes ago, this might be overcompensation. 

"Glad to oblige, sir. Now, if you'll follow me, we still have to see the lower level." 

"Sure thing!" The President acted most eager to move along. Getting out of this particular chamber and the memory of a very unpleasant reaction might have had something to do with it. No one mentioned that, of course, as they all trooped after him. 

Again, Charlie and DeSoto fell towards the rear of this procession. 

Now that he was no longer dazzled by the Conn, or sidetracked by executive idiosyncrasies, the reporter slid back into his career niche: the hunt for new information. He leaned closer to the President's personal aide. "Hey, man, got a question for you." 

Charlie shrugged. "Shoot. But I gotta warn you about a little thing called confidentiality." 

"No probs. I was just wondering what it's like serving the President." 

Charlie didn't have to think about it. "It's the greatest honor you can imagine." 

DeSoto did not look entirely convinced. "Okay, but how fairly does he treat you? Or are you just a gofer?" 

Now Charlie slowed down, so that they fell a bit more behind the others. Clearly he didn't want his next reply to be overheard. Only the extra agent trailed, as inexpressive and silent as ever. 

The body man looked his interrogator in the eye. DeSoto was an inch or two taller, and far broader built. Also, he boasted a skin pigmentation darker than Charlie's own; so black that the contrast against his white shirt and red tie was dazzling. 

"Let me tell you, pal. The President needs a gofer more than anyone else in the world. You wouldn't believe the amount of work he does, or the impact his decisions can have. It's a _huge_ honor to be part of that. I'd rather follow him around than run my own company. But just because I follow him around doesn't mean I'm not appreciated. He likes me personally, and he trusts me. And there's not another man I respect more." 

Then, before DeSoto could do more than open his mouth to follow up, "And before you ask, the President is absolutely color-blind." 

The reporter processed that. "Yeah, I kinda guess he had to be. You were dating his daughter, right?" 

He couldn't have known how raw a nerve he'd touched. Charlie fought to prevent a wince. "Zoey, yeah." 

"Even after Rosslyn, too." DeSoto pondered the many layers behind that, then exhaled. "Guess he's just about as unbiased as they come." 

"Take that to the bank." 

In the next pause, DeSoto cast a speculative eye towards Ellie, several lengths ahead. 

Charlie didn't miss that. "So I'm saying, the President would never object to you or anyone else for racial reasons. But he can always see straight through any sucking up. Besides, Ellie already has a boyfriend." 

"Oh." The newsman sounded disappointed. 

"Count your blessings, man. The President feels things very intensely - for his family, for legislation, for the military... for the country. For the world. You don't want to get on his bad side. Me, I'd rather face off against a nuclear blast." 


	3. All Things Being Equal 3

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

FLASHPOINT 

00:00:00 

The dockyard was reasonably quiet. Sailors and band members wandered, enjoying their freedom until they had to line up again. Fitzwallace chatted casually with Captain Trudeau to one side. 'Marine One' sat unnoticed in its place, two Marines at the controls and one on the tarmac. Secret Service agents maintained their vigil, resembling black chess pieces placed upon the game board in strategic spots, ready for the call to battle. Most reporters had either cell phones or laptops out, transmitting their initial copy by one means of wireless communication or another. At least one of the large video cameras, though, was still aimed at the sub and rolling - not broadcasting this dull interlude live, but with an eye for colorful stock footage. 

00:00:01 

"Here's some more trivia for you, Mr. President," Hyde offered, graciously indulging an endless executive hobby. "The conning tower is properly called the 'Fairwater.'" 

Bartlet cocked his head in mid-stride. "It is? Why?" 

"No idea, sir. These word roots are pretty obscure. We call the back-up diesel engine on all nuclear vessels 'Clyde.'" 

"Charlie, get over here and write these down! This is great stuff to spring on others back home." 

"Glad to help out, sir. Now, this next place we're going - " 

The Commander's words broke off. Then, abruptly, he stopped in his tracks. Of course everyone else at once did the same... 

That was when they felt the rumble. They didn't hear it, but they _felt_ it: a prolonged, _uneven_ rumble that built up, throbbing through the boat's very structure. It still made no sound, yet it vibrated directly \- almost painfully - against the inner ear and the lower jaw. 

Everyone froze. Even to those who did not know subs, it didn't feel right. 

00:00:06 

Fitz and Trudeau turned in unison. The vibration touched them as well, buzzing around the base of the ear - and there was no music or any other kind of dominant sound to mask this curious sensation. The men standing on the boat deck also felt it; CPO Tolkinski could be seen glancing about, and conferring with the sailor closest to him. 

Both officers frowned. Unexpected disturbances in any mechanical object, no matter how unthreatening or unrecognizable they might seem, were almost always bad news. When you're talking _nuclear_ mechanics... 

00:00:14 

The extremely peculiar vibration died away in mere seconds. Completely. 

This apparently positive detail failed to make Hyde relax. "I don't like that." 

Now the interior of the sub seemed _too_ still. Even the earlier, barely-tangible engine hum no longer tickled their feet. The Commander's quiet words carried from one end of the group to the other, so hard were they all listening. 

Ron stepped forward, his duty taking precedence. "Neither do I. This tour is over." 

No one even considered arguing with him. 

00:00:17 

Donna happened to be passing through the Communications bullpen at just this moment. One whole wall consisted of fully eight TV sets, each tuned to a different news station. Everyone in the West Wing always glanced at them, even when just passing through. It had become a learned habit. You never knew... 

Now one image caught her eye: the long black submarine the President was touring today. She paused to watch it. There seemed to be some unusual motion - 

Her expression flowed from curiosity to surprise, and then to concern. "Hey, Josh? C.J.? Can you come over here? I think something might be happening at the sub base..." 

00:00:22 

"You're right; far better to overreact in a scenario like this than treat it too lightly." Hyde switched places with the trailing Secret Service operative, who moved up to stand by their principal protectee. "We'll backtrack; it's fastest." The acting captain led the way towards the ladder-like staircase they'd all just descended. 

No one else spoke; in a nuclear vessel, any possible malfunction can be serious. No one panicked, either; it seemed very minor, and it had passed. 

They'd taken no more than three steps - when all at once a red strobe light flooded the hall and a hideous siren started to ring. 

In the most natural human reaction, all ten braked dead. For one paralyzing heartbeat. 

_"SPILL!"_ the two officers shouted together. And the others all heard the fear in their voices. 

00:00:28 

That alarm must have been wired into the base communications system; it trumpeted forth on external speakers as well, right across the dock. Every single head jerked around, first towards the nearest speaker as the appalling sound's apparent source. 

Then, towards the nearby nuclear vessel. The _actual_ source. 

Every single enlisted member knew what that alarm meant. 

"My God," Trudeau whispered in the dread of his worst possible nightmare. 

Fitz mirrored him exactly. "The reactor." 

00:00:29 

_"RUN!"_ Ron's bellow rose over the alarm and spurred everyone like the lash of a whip. He seized Bartlet's right arm, the other agent grabbed Bartlet's left, and together they hauled him into a sprint. Towards the bow, not the stern. 

"This way!" Lung resumed the lead. No chance of doubling back now; the radiation was chasing them forward. They'd have to take the long way out. 

"ELLIE!" Politics, personal safety - everything gave way to a father's instincts. But the leader of the free world wasn't allowed any choice in the matter. 

"Got her!" Leo wrapped a protective arm around his best friend's daughter. Toby closed in on the other side, offering what help he could. She didn't object, accelerating with both of them. Charlie and DeSoto crowded on their heels. 

00:00:31 

"What the hell's that noise?" Josh demanded, hurrying over. The alarm could clearly be heard through the camera still rolling on site. 

C.J. arrived at almost the same moment. "Holy - what's wrong?" 

In an instant half of the Communications support staff had gathered around as well. 

Donna looked around in fright. "I don't know, but it can't be anything good -" 

"Oh, no." This came from Will. He stood in the doorway, staring at the TV in utter horror. "Not that." 

Everyone turned to him as their resident expert. He'd be able to explain for sure. 

He did. With terrible softness. His face was ashen. _"Meltdown."_

00:00:33 

Unlike fire or smoke or a wall of water, you can't see radiation even when you know it's there and headed your way. In a sense, that makes it all the more horrifying: you've no idea how close it is. It might not be the slowest or the most painful death around, but death it is - ghastly and merciless. 

They fled. Through corridors really too narrow for this kind of evacuation. Towards access to the upper level, the same hatch through which they'd entered, and the comparative safety of the open air. Hyde slammed hatches as they passed through, creating additional layers of case-hardened steel between them and this invisible specter sweeping along in their wake. 

For a moment, the lights overhead flickered. Some bulbs came back on almost at once, but most didn't, leaving them in semi-darkness. Emergency lighting only? 

Then the alarm stopped. 

Before anyone could voice either relief or wonder, the deck rattled again - and this time it _really_ rattled. In fact it _shook._ They all staggered, bouncing into the walls. 

00:00:38 

The bow of the gleaming new submarine erupted into a black cloud. Everyone on its exterior deck lost their balance; some were pitched right overboard. Everyone on the dock instinctively ducked. No shrapnel rained down, but this blast hammered the air and rocked the earth. 

00:00:39 

Many of the White House employees huddling desperately around the TV bank cringed as well. From the way the news image bobbled and shook, the camera operator on location had been physically jarred. Even so, they saw the expanding plume burst forth where only moments before there had been pristine and seamless black hull. Several cried out at this additional and lethal complication. 

00:00:42 

"That was an _explosion!"_ Leo realized, still keeping Ellie close. She was too terrified to say a word or make a move without guidance. 

"And _forward_ of here!" Toby exclaimed, struggling up from his knees, his tone as grim as his expression. 

Hyde made an instantaneous decision. Radiation behind them, a detonation in front... the President caught in the middle... " _No more time!_ Lung \- SHERWOOD!" 

His executive officer did not pause to question or even reply; he gained his feet and ran for a hatchway not far off, a hatchway that looked no different from any other they'd passed through or passed by so far. Ron and his colleague heaved Bartlet up and followed at once, trusting in the judgment of the senior officer for their survival. DeSoto paused to give Charlie a hand; Hyde shoved them both onward. 

They all charged through: one Lieutenant, two bodyguards, one Chief Executive, one Chief of Staff, one Chief Executive's daughter, one Communications Director, one Chief Executive's personal aide, one reporter - and last of all, the boat's master. Who immediately whirled and threw his weight against the heavy metal hatch, swinging it shut. Sealing the danger out. 

Sealing them in. 

TRIDENT 

"EVACUATE THE BASE! CLEAR IT! You - initiate Nova Protocol! Scramble the Otis Hotspur team! You - get me a Geiger NOW! You - get ropes and pull those men out of the water! FAST! It's April, for God's sake! And where the hell is the on-duty SCRAM watch? Get a report - if he's still alive!" Captain Trudeau was shouting orders right and left. Everyone obeyed at once; radiation is the greatest fear for the modern sailor and many civilians besides. 

Amid the immediate flurry of uniforms running in all directions, the panic-stricken press and the ever-blaring alarm, Admiral Fitzwallace stood motionless for one extra-long heartbeat, his dark features horribly blank, staring at the burning submarine that had trapped his President inside. 

Then he snapped back to himself. "Agent!" 

The most proximate member of the Secret Service, already talking rapidly to his wrist, hurried over. 

"Anything from inside?" 

"No, sir." By some miracle, the bodyguard managed to preserve an illusion of calm. "We're assuming they're too close to the reactor." 

"I hope we're _also_ assuming they're still alive." Fitz said that so quietly that it was almost lost in the spiraling pandemonium on all sides. "Let me know the _instant_ you make contact. And stay with me. I'll need a link to Washington as well." 

"Yes, sir." 

Fitz appraised the frenzied scene around him in a glance. "Captain!" 

Trudeau's bull roar rose above the chaos, imposing some semblance of order. "You -" he stabbed a finger at a convenient seaman "- send those reporters packing! Let them bitch; their satellite links still can't outrun a nuclear explosion!" He barely paused for air. "Mr. Chairman, we need to clear the entire area immediately of all non-essential personnel \- and most of the essentials as well!" 

"Agreed." By now Fitz had recovered the iron self-control and cool evaluation that had long been his trademark. "And I need your nuclear and submarine expertise." 

He returned his attention to the "Callanan." Smoke billowed from her ruptured bow, obscuring just how much damage had been done. The main hatch through which the tour party had entered still gaped like an open mouth fighting for air. People scurried around the dock itself, but no one stood on her deck now and no one made any attempt to board. 

In fact, the vessel showed no signs of life at all. No one emerged from within. 

The seconds were flying past - and still no one emerged - 

"Come on..." the Admiral whispered, as though this quiet plea might somehow be heard through submarine bulkheads. "Get him out of there..." 

A man ran up to Trudeau with a large hand-held device. The Captain snatched it away, aimed it at the sub and hit a trigger. Its radiation-sensitive needle leaped up the scale. 

His heavy exhalation carried over even the wailing alarm. "Confirmed. It's not a _detector_ malfunction. The reactor's hot, and getting hotter." 

Fitz bared his teeth in a snarl of helplessness. "How long can they -" 

"No way of knowing, sir. Depends on a lot of things." 

"If they were anywhere near an exit hatch -" 

"They'd be out by now, yes." 

The sharp gleam in the Admiral's eye now bespoke of planning, not shock. "We can't just send rescuers in unprepared." He appeared totally composed, even though every iota of his being must have been shrieking to take steps at once. _Any_ steps that had the remotest possibility of getting the tour party out at once. 

"No, sir." Trudeau fell in with this clinical detachment. It was the only way to fight their gripping fear. "Hotspur will be alerted by now." He waved to the ranks engaged in hauling sailors and bodyguards out of the river. "Get those wet men indoors and find them some dry clothes before they catch their death! Then find out which one is the Chief of the Boat and bring him to me!" 

Fitz left these practical issues to the Captain's efficient management. As Chairman, he was the last link in the chain of command: he had to see the big picture, to consider national security, to gather multiple factors from multiple sources and weld them all into a cohesive whole. His decision would be the final one. That involved reasoning, not just reaction. 

And information. And a lot of confidence in his own judgment, as well as the trust others had in him. 

"Looks like a torpedo blew as well. Probably touched off by a power surge." 

Still sweeping his eye over the dockyard to make sure everything that could be done was being done, Trudeau merely nodded. "Caused by what must've been a reactor spike. Compounds the problem immensely. They've got radiation _and_ fire. At this stage any survivors will have gone to ground. It's their only chance." He flagged down another passing recruit. "Radio all ships' commanders to stoke up and prepare to sail! They should be on that already!" 

Fitz shook his head once, a very slight motion from side to side. It was a gesture not of disagreement, but of denial. "And if the boat goes completely -" 

"ADMIRAL!" 

Both officers turned. A man in an Army uniform - its distinctive brown standing out against all the other whites and the Chairman's very dark blue - had sprung from "Marine One" and was racing towards them. 

"What are we WAITING for?" he gasped, skidding to a halt. He made no effort to salute, but no one was going to insist upon protocol now. "There are ten people in there, AND THE PRESIDENT'S ONE OF THEM! We've got to get him out NOW!" 

"Colonel Morino." Fitz didn't bark at him per se, but the firmness of his tone locked this fellow in his tracks. "No one can go in there at the moment. Not even a doctor. Not even _you._ The radiation levels are rising fast. No rescue of any kind can be attempted without trained and _suited_ operatives." 

"They're on their way," Trudeau reconfirmed. "You -" he hailed another sailor rushing by - "get COMSUBPLANT on the line in my office." 

Morino, the military medic assigned to Bartlet's company for today's trip, and the lone soldier on this naval base, found it far less easy to be objective. "And in the meantime, _what?_ We're just going to stand here and WATCH?" 

"We don't have any choice. No one can survive unprotected for long in that." Fitz braced himself... and then voiced the words nobody else dared put into speech. "Which means it's quite possible that the President and the others are dead already." 

THE WEST WING 

"Oh, God... oh, God..." The mutters drifted through the crowded bullpen like a mantra. 

By definition, a mantra is a traditional Buddhist or Hindu devotional incantation. In more secular circles, it is frequently used as an instrument of thought, to focus one's concentration or bolster one's confidence. Right now, in this White House, it had become a meaningless epitaph by people too stunned to think. All they could see was the burning "Callanan;" all they could grasp was the fact that their leader and their friends were still inside. 

All they could do... was watch. And pray. Not one thing more. 

Josh could not have looked more dazed if he'd just been dropped on his head. C.J. stood so still that she must have been holding her breath, as though one more exhalation in Washington would be too much for the stricken sub in Groton - as though that much additional pressure would surely capsize the boat in its berth. Donna held both fists crammed against her lips. The others stood around them like so many petrified trees. 

Will shook off the spell first. His own military training helped; so did the fact that he was new. He had not been here since the start of the first Bartlet administration, as had most of the support staff present. He had not been on the campaign like the two senior staffers beside him, when the first bonds of friendship were forged. For all that he had quickly come to respect and maybe even like Leo, Toby and Charlie - and the President himself - he simply did not know them that well yet. He had the advantage of a less intense personal horror. 

"We've got to do something." He said this flatly, without panic or confusion. He wanted purpose. "What's the procedure?" 

Whether or not he'd intended to jar his fellow witnesses into action by antagonizing them, he succeeded. "You think we're _used_ to having the President caught in a radioactive crisis?" Donna snapped at him, far more sharply than was her wont. 

"When he's in _any_ kind of trouble outside the White House?" Will snapped back. Getting people mad is one way to grab their attention. "What do you do around here?" 

"Right." C.J. spun away from the magnetic images on the TV screens, her tall frame suddenly brimming with decision. "Carol, find the first Secret Service agent you can and send him here. _Drag_ him if you have to. This takes precedence over standing in the halls. Then inform Margaret and Debbie." Carol left at once, glad to have concrete instructions of her own - no matter how unpleasant or unrealistic. "Ginger, Bonnie: call Leo and Toby on their cell phones. Don't stop until you get through." 

"Don't waste your time," Will advised, his volume subdued. 

Everyone rotated towards him. Each face wore some blend of terror and animosity. 

C.J.'s vision seared him where he stood. "Unless you've got _proof_ that they're not alive to answer..." 

Somehow, Will held his ground. "No, but I have proof that cell phones don't work well in radiation-contaminated areas." 

"Neither do cell phone _owners!_ " This time the Press Secretary's words vibrated. Then she snatched a quick breath, on the verge of making his point for him. 

He acknowledged her concern. "It's not just the radiation, you know; it's the sub's heavy shielding. Cell phones are useless in those conditions." 

Pause. 

C.J. threw a glance at Ginger and Bonnie, still hesitating in the door. "Try anyway." Her glower dared Will to object again. "If there's the slightest chance..." 

The Deputy Communications Director held his peace. Cold facts stood _no_ chance against the tide of desperation. 

She sized him up. "They'll evacuate the base, right?" 

"They already are, trust me." 

"That means I'm going to have some very upset reporters to deal with." 

Will emitted a half-snort. "What some people won't do to get the story." 

"Tell me about it." C.J. folded her arms, ready for war. 

Of all the people gathered here, Josh alone seemed to be paying no attention to this debate. His whole being remained glued to the news coverage. 

Donna leaned towards him. She spoke softly, as though she feared to spook him further. "Josh. You're in charge." 

"I know." He didn't flinch; he didn't so much as blink. The fact had begun to penetrate that, with both the Chief of Staff and the Chief Executive away, the gigantic burden and frightful responsibility of running the White House fell to him. Josh possessed one of the sharpest, most politically astute minds around - but this impact would boggle anyone. 

However, you didn't survive working with people like Leo, Toby or Jed Bartlet - or Donna - unless you had the innate ability to land on your feet. The wheels started to turn. 

His quiet commands might have lacked force, but they didn't lack conviction. "Contact Nancy McNally. We'll need the Situation Room fully staffed ASAP. Then get the House Speaker on the line." 

He hesitated one extra beat. "And Hoynes." 

Several people couldn't prevent a gasp. 

Josh ignored them. Constitutionally, that contact had to be made. 

He turned from the news, dismissing it as nowhere near complete enough. "I'm calling Fitzwallace." 

"Josh." Will held his distance, as though he feared to impose his ideas too strongly right now. Would everyone else see in him a desire to help \- or would they suspect this to be a veritable power grab? "You might want to leave at least one line open... because you can bet Fitzwallace will be calling _you._ " 

Now that his eyes didn't reflect the glow from the TV sets, Josh appeared more in control of himself - and of everything else. He paused only for an instant. 

"Okay, you're my Secretary of Defense." 

He sounded serious. _Looked_ serious. 

Will looked startled. So did several others. But then, everyone knew his family background by now. He was the logical choice. In fact, he was the _only_ choice. 

Josh could be accused of bragging often enough; it seemed an integral part of his nature. When the chips were down, though, he knew how to shelve pride, how to take whatever advantage he could find, and when to ask for help. "You don't grow up with a four-star admiral for a father without hearing a lot of naval stories. The NSA and the Joint Chiefs are on their way. Let's get ready for them." 

Will darted one glance to the left and to the right. Everyone was watching him. Waiting for him. 

Then he squared up, accepting this appointment. His colleagues hardly ever saw him display such assurance - except when imparting information he knew very well. 

"Okay. We need to lock down that entire region of Connecticut. Both sides of the river. Get people indoors. Normally you'd evacuate, but there won't be time for that. All Navy vessels within fifty miles at least: they have to put well out to sea. Clear all pleasure craft from the Thames and the Race. Clear the skies, too; get all aircraft between Boston and Newark on the ground. And we're going to need the technical plans for the sub." 

"The plans we can get. But shutting down half a state? Grounding flights? That's not my call, even with Leo gone." 

"No, it's the Joint Chiefs' call. But in a nuclear accident they _will_ call it." Will sounded very sure of that. "They'll still take a few minutes to get here; let's have everything ready to go the moment they arrive. Save them all the time you possibly can. You also should get hold of Sub Command in King's Bay. They have the final authority over the boat itself." 

Josh processed all of this... and nodded. "Yeah. I can get it ready to happen, and the fewer questions I have to ask, the better." The gravity of the situation had sunk in, deep. 

Behind them, C.J. followed the news footage. By now all press must have been evicted from the shipyard; the stations showed only the President's arrival earlier, the sub before the alarm, and then the shaky images of the boat's exploding nose. Nothing more. 

She sighed, and her voice trembled a bit. "Let us give thanks for the 'body watch.' It's all on film. What little there is." 

A dark-suited man strode swiftly into the room. Everyone got out of his way. 

"Miss Cregg?" 

"Any confirmation, either or?" she demanded at once, her expression taut. 

The agent showed no emotion at all. "No, ma'am." 

She didn't act surprised. "Well, if cell phones can't get through, radios won't." 

"Exactly." 

"What about the First Family?" 

The room went dead silent. Nothing had been mentioned by anyone about the rest of the Bartlet clan before this moment. They'd been utterly forgotten. 

"They should all have been informed by now. All details are on full alert. So is the White House." 

C.J. gave a despondent nod. "Which brings us to the next thing. Somebody get on the horn and track down family members of the other people trapped: Leo's daughter, Toby's ex-wife, Charlie's sister. I'd really prefer to reach them before they hear it off the news." 

No one disagreed. At least two staffers reached for telephones at once. 

The Press Secretary rotated, searching for further steps they could take. She'd never had to do anything like this before, but right now she made a most effective second-in-command. Bartlet, Leo and Toby would have been very proud of all three senior staffers. They had proven themselves able to rise to a terrifying challenge and find new niches in the most critical triad of roles a government can boast during a national calamity. 

She focused again on the Secret Service agent. "Can you stick around?" 

"Yes." The agent moved sideways a few feet. 

Closer to Josh Lyman. 

Everyone stared at the bodyguard... and then they stared at his new protectee. Now the Acting Chief of Staff, for a White House in a state of emergency. Without a President. 

Josh stared at the bodyguard, too. His features ran through a kaleidoscope of confusion, disbelief, amazement and consternation. 

Then he turned quickly to his colleagues on all sides. Judging from his open mouth, he had been totally unprepared for this ever-so-visible mark of command. 

He did not stand alone in truth; they all worked together as a team. However, he had become their undisputed leader. 

On TV, the endless loop of catastrophe and breaking headlines continued. 


	4. All Things Being Equal 4

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

NAVY ONE 

For one long moment Commander Hyde stood still. His palms were pressed against the hatch he'd just closed; his head was bowed under the weight of his decision to close it. 

Then he straightened, full of urgency. "Lieutenant! Make sure the forward hatch is sealed as well!" 

"Aye, sir!" Lung took off at a run. 

"I'll shut the vents." Hyde hurried towards the nearest bank of controls. 

One more second of silence, of comparative peace... 

"I think you can let go of me now." The President shook off his two bodyguards with some irritation - not aimed at them and their protectiveness so much as at the overall situation. "Clearly we're not going anywhere soon." 

Both agents complied. There wasn't much more anyone could do towards their joint safety at this stage. 

"Are you all right, sir?" Ron demanded. Every other head turned, of course. 

Bartlet completely ignored him. "Eleanor?" 

She still stood beside Leo, drawing what comfort there could be from the encircling arm of this old family friend. Now, at the sound of her name, she turned towards her father. 

He looked almost as scared as she did. But in his case, even the surging clamor of newly-operant phobias had been pushed back under the surface by an even more powerful force. His fear for _her_ overrode everything else. 

They went to each other, not in a rush, yet without hesitation. 

"You okay?" He placed both hands on her arms - and paused. The persistent and hard-to-define awkwardness between them had lingered for years. Could a crisis, _any_ crisis, dissipate it completely and instantaneously? 

She nodded shortly. "Are _you?_ " 

"Only so long as you are." He hugged her briefly, then pulled back for a better view. She gave him a reserved yet honest smile. He couldn't help returning it. 

Then he gazed past her. "Leo." 

His Chief of Staff turned, brows raised, awaiting orders. 

"Thank you." A world of gratitude filled those two simple words. Leo actually colored a bit at such simple yet heartfelt emotion. 

Ron assumed control. "Everyone else?" He waited until he had received affirming nods from Toby, Charlie and DeSoto. "Donnie, try to radio out. But I doubt you can." 

"Cell phones?" Toby produced his, holding it up as though it were the only link to the outside world left them. 

"Same thing: the hull is too heavily shielded, even without the reactor interference." 

The second agent shook his head. "Nothing." 

The Communications Director dropped his arm and sighed dejectedly. 

"Which means we can't tell anyone outside where we are. Or even _that_ we are," the President summed up. "Perfect ingredients for a panic." 

"Fitzwallace is on site," Leo reminded him, in a tone both reassuring and iron-hard. "And Josh and C.J. will handle their end." 

"Josh running the White House. _How_ did you talk me into that one?" As planned, Bartlet got a few fleeting half-smiles in response. Humor always was one of his favorite ways to alleviate tension in a bad moment. 

Lung reappeared just then, breathing hard from his sprint. "The forward hatch is secure, sir - and _warm._ " 

"Not a good sign on a boat," Hyde offered unnecessarily, coming over as well. "That means there's fire in the bow - and an out-of-control fire at that, if it's already heating up the forward bulkhead of this military holy ground." 

A fresh sheen of dampness appeared on the President's forehead. For those few in the know, he had to be holding onto his nerve with all ten fingernails by now. Yet he stood firm, somehow taking in this new bulletin calmly and decisively. "What do you think happened?" 

"Must have been some kind of power surge. God only knows what caused it. The reactor spiked, sending a flush of energy through the whole boat." 

"Which shorted out most of the electrical systems, judging from that sudden drop in lighting," Ron concluded. 

"Right. It must've arced somehow, which then touched off one of the forward torpedoes. That was the explosion." 

"What are the chances of _more_ exploding torpedoes?" Leo asked first, urgently. 

The Commander shrugged. "Can't say. If there are no more spikes, then we should remain pretty stable." He paused. "That is, until the boat blows completely." 

He didn't need to extrapolate on what would happen next. The image of a huge, glowing mushroom cloud formed in every mind present. 

Leo wore his battle mask. "And we're stuck here, with nowhere to go!" Knowing him, he was infinitely more concerned for his old friend and national leader than for himself. 

At this reiteration of just how stuck they were, his old friend and national leader drew in a slow, _very_ deep breath through clenched teeth. Perhaps no one noticed. 

Hyde did not give ground. "Running for it is not an option. It would have taken two minutes at least for all of us to gain the upper level and climb through the main hatch. That amount of radiation exposure wouldn't have been too dangerous, so long as we stayed ahead of the worst of it. It does need a little while to spread. But the forward fire is a whole different matter. And we couldn't go _through_ the rad spill to retrace our steps; that'd be suicidal. We really didn't have much choice but to take cover in a shielded area and wait for rescue." 

"Speaking of which," Bartlet interjected, "where are we?" 

For the first time, everyone took a moment to survey their surroundings. This had to be the single largest compartment in the sub. It was well-lit, its ceiling rose far above them, and its length stretched bow-ward further than they could see. Skeletal catwalks crisscrossed on all sides, intersecting and creating many different access levels. The walls at ground level displayed endless controls and equipment. 

And dominating it all... were the enormous red cylinders that towered over them and everything else, in a double row, each one wider than a man is tall, stretching towards the distant roof, silent sentinels of unknown objective. 

"We're in the missile compartment. We call it 'Sherwood Forest.'" Hyde paused, but this time their leader had no time to spare for the etymology of navy slang. "Those -" he inclined his head towards the gigantic metal pillars "- are the missile silos themselves." 

A pause fell in tribute to the colossal import of that information. DeSoto looked both amazed and horrified that they were standing so close to such awesome firepower. 

"I've shut down the ventilation system," Hyde went on, "and the hatches are all dogged. Nothing can get in here now: not the radiation, and not the fire. Sherwood and the Conn are the boat's most heavily shielded areas, and the biggest. There'll be plenty of air for a long time." 

"Hopefully we won't be here long enough to put that to the test," Toby muttered, too quietly for most to hear. Charlie did, however, and shot him a look. 

"In the meantime, are there any other steps we can take?" Ron asked. "How does one go about shutting down a runaway nuclear reactor?" 

The question sounded a bit absurd, given that they were trapped here, most of them with no training for such an emergency and no idea how to handle whatever equipment might or might not be at hand. Still, it went totally against this man's nature - and against his job - to do nothing. 

To the surprise of some, Hyde had an answer. "Two ways. One is to insert the control rods into the reactor itself, which would send it 'cold' very quickly. The other is to flood the engine room. Water is _the_ perfect barrier against radiation. In fact, diesel fuel is just as good, which is why the tanks for Clyde are located right around the reactor: fuel and protection together. However, with fire in the hold I don't recommend spreading flammable liquids around." 

"No." Leo vetoed that idea at once. "What about the rods?" 

"That was the SCRAM officer's job. We build every single safeguard into a reactor that's technically possible, but manually inserting the rods is the only iron-clad guarantee to take it off-line and eliminate any chance of a meltdown." Hyde paused. "If the SCRAM officer succeeded, even if it cost him his life, then they'd know outside from the falling rad levels, and they'd send someone in for us almost at once." 

Toby couldn't keep quiet any longer. "So you're saying, if we don't hear a knock on the door in the next few minutes...?" 

"Then he failed." The Commander wore a look that any leader would recognize: the anguish of losing people under his command. "Either way - he's dead. Whatever it was that caused the reactor to go critical, he was stationed right beside it. That close to the source of all this spreading radiation, there's no way he could've lasted more than twenty seconds before the atmosphere was ionized." 

DeSoto shuddered as if from a sudden chill. Imagine the very air around you being _destroyed,_ changed from a life-giving element into something horribly lethal, leaving you suddenly unable to breathe at all... 

Hyde shivered a bit himself. "Besides, I had to lock us in here... which means I locked him out. Anyone on this boat who's not in this room has been sealed out to die." 

The eerie silence returned, this time flavored with _real_ horror. 

"I'm sorry." That quiet sentence came from Bartlet. He, and Ron, understood how their skipper felt right now better than anyone else present. 

Hyde blinked, surprised that their President could find the time and consideration in such a crisis to show sympathy for someone he'd never met. "Thank you, sir." 

None of the White House employees showed any surprise at all. They knew their boss. This fit right in with the size of his heart. 

Ron refocused. He didn't want to sound callous, but they were all pressed for time. "So the rods are out. _Can_ we flood that part of the sub around the reactor?" 

Ellie's eyes were huge. The water would protect them against the radiation, yet it'd be a dire menace in itself. Even though they were still docked, they could still drown. 

"Theoretically, yes. There are sea cogs in the stern for that purpose. And normally we could control the whole boat from here; it's a safety feature, in case the Conn is lost. That's why it's so well-lit; we've got first call on the back-up batteries. Plus, Sherwood is waterproof." 

However, despite all these encouraging facts, Hyde did not look at all optimistic. That in itself warned everyone of what was coming next. 

"Theoretically?" Ron pressed, not satisfied with assumptions. 

"I tried to flood the engine room already, right after I closed off ventilation." The Commander let out a long breath. "The automated valve controls aren't functioning. That first power surge must've fried our whole electronics board. I had to crank the vents shut manually." 

Silence. 

Leo exhaled even more explosively. "What you're saying _now_ is, we're in no position to do anything except sit here." 

"And wait for whatever will happen." 

TRIDENT 

"Radiation's still rising. Whatever sparked the reaction must've killed or incapacitated the SCRAM officer on the spot. And he sure won't be alive by now." 

"The question is, will anyone _else_ below deck be alive either?" 

"A million-dollar question if ever I heard one." 

"And I'd give my chair for an affirmative answer." 

"Thank you, Admiral, but _I_ don't want your chair either." 

Fitzwallace peered out of Captain Trudeau's second-story office window at the dock below, and the newly-named sub smoking in her berth. By now there wasn't a living soul in sight outside, anywhere. 

"Not when I have to make decisions like this, huh?" 

"Yes, sir." Trudeau leaned over a set of technical submarine blueprints. "The tour was less than half-over. They'd have been heading deeper into the boat all along. If they were far enough from the reactor, but not too close to the forward torpedo bay, they might have had time to take cover. That would be either the Conn on the upper level, or missile control on the lower, depending upon where they were." He pointed to the locations named. 

"And how long do you think they can survive in there?" 

"With hatches dogged and vents off, the radiation and the smoke can't enter. They'll be relatively safe for a few hours at least." The base commander hesitated a beat. "Assuming the boat herself remains intact, of course." 

Hands locked behind his back, shoulders taut, Fitz did not move. "Of course." He inhaled slowly. "I just pray they _all_ made it to that shelter." 

"Concurred. What's our status?" Trudeau turned. 

Chief Tolkinski stepped forward, the only other person present save for a lone Secret Service agent. "Sir. Base evacuation is proceeding. All vessels in dock are almost ready to sail. COMSUBPLANT is keeping the line open. And Hotspur ETA is thirty-one minutes." 

"THIRTY-ONE MINUTES?" 

"I'd say they're making good time from Otis," Fitz commented dryly, trying to find _some_ positive side. "With all their equipment, too..." 

"The 'Callanan' could blow in thirty-one SECONDS!" Trudeau seethed. "How many times have I said that we need our own response team based _here?_ I practically _begged_ for one! But with DoD cutbacks and shifting priorities and civilian politicians -" 

"Let's revisit the defense budget later." Having the privilege of a close relationship with his Commander-in-Chief, the Chairman was rather more sensitive to slights against politicians in general than most of his military colleagues. Besides, now was definitely _not_ the time. 

Then again... "And we _will_ revisit it." The odds on the President surviving this escapade would be far greater if rescue didn't have to come from two states away. 

Trudeau let out a harsh sigh, reining in his frustration. "Yes, sir." He came over to take in the view as well. 

They stood side by side, two senior officers of comparable height and near-identical expressions, yet otherwise a study in contrasts. Black and white - from uniforms to hair to skin color - as though the silver moon shone against the night sky. 

Only a single sheet of glass stood between them and that sizzling reactor. If it _did_ blow, the men in this office would be the second set of casualties. 

The Captain's even tone betrayed no concern at all for that brutal fact. Certainly he showed not the slightest interest in evacuating himself. "From here, it looks like the explosion partially blew open one of the forward torpedo loading hatches. You can see the metal plate through the smoke: it's twisted to one side, but it's still hanging on." 

"The resulting breach appears to be a fair size. Could that provide a faster means of entry for the SEALs?" 

"Faster in that it's a bigger hole than the crew hatches, yes - but they'd have to contain the fire first. Unfortunately, the Fairwater is out: it's almost directly over the reactor. Anyone entering there will be walking right into the spill." Trudeau rubbed his jaw, juggling options. "Another point: the bow damage will hamper towing. And let water in besides." 

"The water can be a good thing, against both the fire _and_ the radiation." 

"Don't count on it, sir. It would take ages to reach the engine room that way." 

"Could water in the bow help prevent _another_ torpedo from blowing?" 

Trident's commander shook his head dubiously. "It might at that - _if_ there are no loose electrical wires sparking about. Otherwise, water will just add to the problem. We're damned lucky the whole bow didn't blow right off at the start. And if another torp goes, it could all too easily detonate every _other_ weapon on board." 

Fitz actually looked pale. "Incinerating the 'Callanan', and scattering the radiation far and wide." 

"We've got to get that boat out to sea. Fast." Trudeau whirled. "WHEN are those tugs going to be ready?" he almost shouted. 

Tolkinski opened his mouth - 

"Here they come." Fitz pointed to a pair of small vessels on approach: the only motion at all, save for the still-rising smoke from the docked sub. 

"About time! Chief, I need to know the instant they're hooked up." 

"Aye, sir." Tolkinski moved closer to the radio on the desk. 

"Captain." Fitz revolved. There was a positively ominous air about him now. He'd reached an irrevocable decision. "Is there a destroyer or some other ship here in Trident now that I could borrow?" 

"No destroyers; they're too large for inlet or coastal duty." That automatic explanation came out before Trudeau could help himself. "We do have the 'Houston', though. Aegis class cruiser. Not too big, but very maneuverable." He tilted his head, mutely wondering at this sudden interest in _surface_ ships. 

"Sub hunter, right?" 

The Captain's eyes narrowed; he was beginning to get the point. "... Yes, sir." 

"Has its own helipad?" 

"And fully armed." 

Fitz didn't drop a single hint of what he had in mind. "Good. I'll take 'Marine One' with me. It's not designed for evacuation of a boat or anything else, but it's available. The President should always fly in an armored aircraft anyway." 

Trudeau pressed his lips into a straight line... and then he drew himself to full attention. "Admiral, you have the 'USS Houston' at your command to escort 'Navy One'." Perhaps this formal announcement helped to keep the weight of knowledge at bay just a bit. 

Fitz stood just as stiffly. "Thank you." 

Right then Colonel Morino entered the office. 

"Sir, we've got the White House." 

"Be right there." Fitz surveyed the men in this room with him. "Colonel: as the physician assigned to the President, you will join me on the escorting cruiser. And nothing personal, but I pray you _won't_ be needed. 

"Chief Tolkinski: as COB of the 'Callanan', you will accompany us as well. I'll need a liaison with the 'Houston's' crew. 

"Agent, if your duty permits it, I'd like you to come also. I still hold out hopes of making contact with someone inside the boat, and if it happens you'll know about it. Besides, _when_ we get the captives out, you should be on hand. 

"Captain Trudeau: your response to this crisis has been exemplary." 

"Thank you, sir." The base commander did not salute, but he managed to stand even taller. "Godspeed - to you, and to the President." 

Fitz nodded solemnly. "I'll pass that on the first chance I get. Inform the 'Houston' when the tugs have 'Navy One' rigged for towing." Pause. "And tell her skipper to arm her weapons." 

That last sentence rang through this office like a funeral bell. 

Morino's gasp echoed as the implication hit him broadside. 

Trudeau had already expected this, and had braced himself accordingly. The switch, from two fellow sailors expertly dissecting a situation to a superior officer giving a subordinate a direct order, was swift and sure. " _Aye,_ sir." 

The executive medic looked even more stunned that such a command would be so promptly endorsed. 

"Admiral..." He had to struggle for words. "Do - do you know what you're saying?" 

Fitz regarded him gravely - indeed, sadly. 

"Yes, Colonel. It means that I just might be going down in history as the first Chairman ever to kill his own President." 

THE WEST WING 

"Yes, Mr. Chairman. The NSA will be here any moment. I'll transfer you downstairs." 

In the following pause, Josh sat up straighter with every evidence of surprise. " _Me?_ Sir, I've never... I mean, Leo... I have no military... I can't give you that kind of advice..." 

He swallowed. "I'm sorry you're stuck with only me. But I'll do my best and then some, sir. Yes, I'll head down at once." 

He set the phone receiver on his desk blotter and rose. "Donna!" 

She appeared immediately, ready for orders. 

"Fitzwallace. Transfer him to the Situation Room. I'm going there now." 

Her wide eyes betrayed what she thought of the glaring abnormality that her boss would ever be allowed inside that ultra-vital chamber, but she did not comment. Not to tease him about his illusions of grandeur. Not even to joke about his insistence that she do the manual labor for him. He was, for better or for worse, the highest ranking staffer around, and as such he had no choice but to go where he'd never gone before. "You got it." 

Josh hurried out of his office. Sure enough, his Secret Service shadow fell into step right behind. He glanced back, far from comfortable with the whole bodyguard idea. Said bodyguard met his anxious gaze calmly, as impassive as though this was "Eagle" detail. 

"Josh?" Ginger shot to her feet when she saw him. 

He didn't even slow down. "Sorry, I don't know anything more than you do. Not yet, at least. Any luck with the cell phones?" 

She shook her head - a useless gesture, as he had already passed her by. "Not yet." 

"They can't penetrate the sub. _That's_ the reason." He tried hard to sound certain. 

"I sure hope so," she almost whispered into his wake. 

The Deputy Chief of Staff vanished in one direction... and the Deputy Communications Director appeared from another. 

No sooner did he arrive than he very nearly got run over by a frantic intern. Everyone was in high gear: either with urgent work to do, or else with panicked thoughts that could only be held in check by frantic movement. 

"Where's Josh?" he asked the pandemonium at large. 

"Went thataway." Ginger pointed. 

"To the Situation Room," Donna clarified, emerging from Josh's office. 

Will nodded, seeing nothing odd in Joshua Lyman - one of the biggest goofballs in this White House when a certain mood hit - being included in debates of the highest security and import during a national crisis. "Good. The Joint Chiefs are arriving. Do you know if he heard anything?" 

"No - but he was on the phone briefly with Fitzwallace." Donna followed Will through the much-more-chaotic-than-usual bullpen. "Have _you_ heard anything?" 

"Nope. Hell, the _Secret Service_ haven't heard anything." 

"Now that's terrifying." Her voice climbed in pitch. "They could be alive - and trapped - or they might not be alive at all - _and we don't know_ -" 

"The not knowing is always the worst." He touched her arm briefly in an attempt to offer comfort. "Hang in there. They've got two agents with them, and two sub officers." 

Donna made a huge effort to get herself back under control. "Plus, Leo and Toby are no slouches in a tight spot." 

"So I've heard - and seen." Will gave her a slight smile, then continued onward through the mass of scuttling White House employees. 

He found C.J. in her comparatively quiet office, studying the newsreel of the sub explosion. Again. 

"How many times have you seen that so far?" 

"I've lost count." The Press Secretary rubbed her tired eyes. "I suppose I should be grateful for what little footage they caught... but it's positively painful to watch." 

"Still better than relying on other people's snatched perceptions of the scene, though." 

"Give the man a cigar. Any detective will tell you that eyewitness accounts are rarely reliable." She stood, stretching her spine stiffly. "Anything on your end?" 

He shrugged, looking helpless - indeed, useless - and feeling like it as well. "Besides the fact that the brass is gathering and the security has skyrocketed, not much. Without information, we're all just spinning our wheels." 

"Yeah, we're _really_ useful to the President right now." C.J.'s voice overflowed with self-loathing. 

Will's lack of reply to that statement indicated full agreement. Every single soul in this historic building burned with the desire to help, to do something - to do _anything_ that would bring this nightmare to a successful end _now._ That would bring their leader _home._ And none of them could do anything at all. 

Unable to offer any plausible encouragement there, he changed the subject. "When's your briefing?" 

"I'm waiting as long as I can. It'll give the Press Corps more time to congregate, so I don't have to address them too often. And it'll give me more time to amass whatever new data comes in at the last minute." 

She planted her hands on her hips and regarded him soberly. "How much can you tell me about nuclear submarines? The less I need to have explained to me before I can explain it to others..." 

"Quite a bit, I think, for someone who's never served on one. I have two brothers who did, and they talked a lot. It was sort of inevitable. My father always liked to hear about the latest innovations, too." Will almost smiled. "The dinner conversations we had..." 

"Subs aren't the only nuclear vessels out there," C.J. suddenly reminded herself. 

"True. And let me say that people who serve on such vessels have a _very_ keen understanding and fear of their reactors." 

"Then you're definitely the guy I want. I'm sure you'll know what _not_ to tell me." 

"I think I can differentiate." He headed for the sofa. 

And froze in the act of seating himself. "Say, where's the First Lady? Is she here yet?" 

C.J. grew even more somber. "No. I don't know her schedule - although I do know that she wasn't in the White House, or else she'd be here by now. You can bet her detail is screaming this way from whatever event she was attending." 

"No doubt." Will's features developed a pinched look. Although he did not know Abbey Bartlet personally, he had all the sympathy in the world for what she had to be going through - on account of both her husband and her middle daughter. Her arrival here was not something to look forward to. 

As though she'd picked up the very same thought, C.J. looked over his head at the open office door. "Carol?" 

Her assistant stepped promptly into view. 

"Have you reached Zoey yet?" 

"Yes; she's en route, about an hour away." 

"And Elizabeth?" 

"I haven't been able to get through." Carol displayed no small regret. 

C.J. sighed heavily. "They'll know what's happening by now, from their agents if no one else. But keep trying. We owe them that courtesy at least. Same goes for the rest of the next of kin. Don't stop trying until either you get through or _they_ do. We may not be able to keep them on the line _all_ the time, but at least we can update them at once." 


	5. All Things Being Equal 5

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

NAVY ONE 

"Dad, are you okay?" 

The President turned quickly - a bit too quickly. "I'm fine." 

Eleanor wasn't convinced. "Oh, yeah? You're sweating." 

He didn't reach for a handkerchief or brush a palm across his damp forehead; that would be an admission of the truth. "Nothing's the matter." He glanced around in a sincere effort at appearing idle and unbothered. Fortunately, at this moment they stood a few yards apart from the others. 

She folded her arms, every bit as obstinate as he could be. "No, nothing at all... except that we're locked inside a cramped little submarine with radiation at one end, fire at the other, and water on both sides." 

There are two ways to handle phobic terror. Sometimes, denial or suppression is the only thing you can do, the only thing the situation will allow you. However, at some point the victim has to confront the fear, or at the very least acknowledge that it exists. 

"Well summarized." Did an extra spark of discomfort flicker in his eyes? His daughter immediately looked contrite. 

"Dad, there's nothing abnormal _or_ weak about a phobia suddenly breaking out in the right conditions. They can be unexpected - and overwhelming. I know you don't like to be reminded of this, but you're human." 

"Can't be human. In my job I'm not _allowed_ to be." That statement went beyond facetious and straight into factual. Phobias are devilishly hard to fight; if you have any tool on hand, you use it. For once, Bartlet's own sense of duty provided a welcome excuse. 

He lost no time diverting the conversation away from any concern directed at himself. "Besides, this place is _yooge._ Not confining at all. And look at all the hardware! It'd be worth studying engineering for years just to learn what it all does -" 

Sometimes, members of the First Family and employees of the White House welcomed their leader's talent for changing awkward subjects. This was not such an occasion. The fact that Ellie had her own medical training didn't help her father's cause. 

"You haven't had a reaction like this in ages. Why now?" She lowered her voice another notch, definitely not wanting their companions to overhear. "But then, this is hardly the most spacious place you've ever toured. We should've guessed. I know Mom would've come for sure if she'd even suspected something might kick up -" 

The executive humor vanished in an almost visible flash of steam. Bartlet's expression became closed, even stern. "I'm fine. _Nothing_ wrong with me. Not now, not before, and certainly not in the future." He said that as though saying it meant nothing _could_ happen to him. 

Well, when you consider that any change in his well-being affected an entire nation... and the stability of other nations besides... not to mention world markets... 

She sighed in frustration and turned away, backing down rather than escalate the confrontation, reinstating an uncomfortably familiar gulf between them. Silence fell. 

"I'm sorry I got you into this." 

Those words yanked her back around. Her father had shifted from obstinate to apologetic - but there was more. He too had felt the return of their long-known tension. Was it because he refused to let his daughter comfort him? He always did his best to be strong, especially with the specter of _very_ bad health forever lingering on the horizon. 

Or, did he read her withdrawal as aloofness - even resentment? Aimed at him? Did he wonder if she blamed him for her being in this predicament? If his job hadn't demanded such a duty, or if he'd had any other job at all, _none_ of them would be here now... 

_Was_ she blaming him, perhaps without even realizing it herself? 

Ellie hesitated. Her father was one person she went far out of her way to avoid confronting, mostly because their arguments almost always went unresolved on either end. Then, suddenly, understanding and concern triumphed over all else. 

"This is not your fault, Dad. Doesn't matter whether it's me or Mom or Zoey. No one can blame you for a reactor problem." 

"And if it _were_ your mother, or Zoey, I'd be just as worried - and just as responsible." The lines on Bartlet's face deepened. "Same as I'm responsible for all of them." He glanced back at their fellow captives, muttering amongst themselves and respectfully keeping their distance. 

The irony was that their fellow captives would feel every bit as responsible for _him._

Ellie blew out an exasperated breath. "Dad! You don't have to be the President right now! We're all in this together!" 

Another moment of silence settled... but this one felt different. It didn't have the pall of resignation. It had the ring of meaning. 

Slowly, the President's features lightened. His new attitude might almost have been described as inspired. 

"You know... I believe every man here will soon have reason to thank you." 

She frowned in no little confusion. But her father did not elaborate. Instead, he headed towards the other gathering. 

Whatever that group of eight had been talking about before, two voices were gaining dominance. 

"The President's welfare takes precedence. That's my responsibility." Ron did not adopt a particularly aggressive pose or make any belligerent movement, but his fierce determination would intimidate anyone. 

_Almost_ anyone. "I'm the captain of this boat." Several inches shorter, Hyde still stood firm on that unassailable fact and did not give an inch. Few leaders enjoyed being told they weren't in charge of their own patch anymore. 

He _was_ captain in truth, no matter what his sleeve insignia said. It had long since become a naval tradition that the master of any vessel, who might hold a rank as low as lieutenant commander, should be addressed as "captain" while aboard his command. Trust the military to find new and unusual ways to confuse a situation. 

"This boat isn't going anywhere, _Captain,_ and the President -" 

"Will break your deadlock." 

Both men turned swiftly; they'd been too preoccupied with their clash of wills to notice any approach. 

Bartlet wore his best genial face. "I happen to outrank you both, remember?" He paused for effect. "Now, it's been my experience that Ron is the best coordinator in a crisis. However," he continued smoothly, before his head of security could take advantage of this endorsement or his host could take umbrage, "Commander Hyde is the resident expert on submarines, specifically _nuclear_ submarines. Surely we can harness all of these qualities to full potential?" 

Ellie struggled between a frown and a smile. Her father had used exactly the same tone here that he'd directed many a time towards his daughters: scolding and patient together. 

Come to think of it, several of his staff had been recipients in the past as well. 

Ron could handle being lectured by his Chief Executive and chief protectee, no problem. But he welcomed a challenge to his duty even less than Hyde did to his command. "Sir -" 

"By the way..." Bartlet went on, gently brushing him off, "it's time for introductions. We're going to be here for awhile; we might as well get to know each other. It facilitates conversation immensely." 

Before anyone could digest enough of that unexpected statement to react, he walked over to the man he did not know at all. Hand extended. "Hi. We haven't met. I'm Jed." 

It was physically impossible for DeSoto to blanche, but the widening of his eyes and the gulp in his throat conveyed the exact same emotion. "Mr. President." He needed a full heartbeat to dare accept that handshake, self-consciously shoving his camera bag aside. "Uh - Johnny DeSoto. I, uh, work for the, uh, New London -" 

"That's all right, Johnny. Titles aren't worth much in here right now, are they? Besides, we shouldn't identify people solely by their employment. Everyone has many other points of worth as well." Bartlet's casual smile projected both comfort and reassurance. By singling out the person automatically defined as "least" of those present, he'd demonstrated his ability to care for someone regardless of status and made his point all at the same time. "Too bad you got roped into this little adventure, but it's good to have you along." 

DeSoto managed a nod, still nervous; however, this kind advance did calm him somewhat. Ever since they'd found themselves sealed inside missile control, he'd been looking both thrilled and terrified. 

The President sized him up: a young giant, shorter only than Ron and well-built indeed. "This'll be the story of your life, huh?" 

"Oh, yes, _sir._ If I live to file it," the reporter couldn't stop himself from adding. 

"Yeah, your next by-line will be either on the front page or on a tombstone." Bartlet kept smiling, which took the sting out of that brutal truth. "With a little luck, it'll be the former." Then he revolved, his grin vanishing. "Everyone. There is to be no attempt by any person or institution to restrict what Johnny chooses to report - except for some technical or military details that can't be made public. But we'll deal with that when we have to." 

He swung back. "I'd like to ask only one thing: a little charity in the end. For the sake of the families going through this with us." 

DeSoto swallowed again, even harder. "Yes, sir. I understand." 

"Good man." Bartlet swept his eye over everyone present. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes - introductions. This is Charlie. Toby. Leo." Following his own advice, he gave no titles. Each man inclined his head in response. "Ron, of course. And...?" 

"Donnie, sir," the second agent provided, falling in with this new standard of first names only. Except with regard to The Man, of course. 

"Donnie, thanks. I should've known that. Captain Hyde." Of course the Commander-in-Chief had to be at least passingly familiar with the ins and outs of protocol. "I've already had my chance to joke about your last name, but I never got your first..." 

"Byron, sir." 

_"Lord Byron!"_ Their leader beamed. "I _knew_ you had a literary connection someplace." Eyes rolled on several fronts. "And Lieutenant -" 

"Wayne Lung, sir," the executive officer provided. 

"Right. Now it's _your_ turn. 'Lung' is the Chinese word for 'dragon,' I believe." 

His young oriental features smoothed out in wonder. "It is, sir." 

"Then you're going to be especially valuable, Wayne, since there's a fine sample of dragon's fire right outside that door." Smiles _and_ frowns accompanied this dual observation. 

Having done his best to put everyone more at ease, the President invited his daughter to come forward. "And this is Eleanor... currently doing her Edison impression." 

"What?" Ellie said that first, but everyone else looked no less mystified. 

"Supplying light." Bartlet leveled his bright blue vision at each person here. "I want every one of you to put all social distinctions out of your mind." 

Pause. 

"Sir?" Of them all, Hyde had the hardest time comprehending this instruction. He'd been immersed in the rigid rank structure of the Armed Forces for most of his life. 

"We're all in the same boat right now - literally. Whatever status any of us can boast of means nothing. _All_ men are created equal. Says so right in our Constitution." 

"All _men?_ " Ellie couldn't hold back that involuntary protest. 

"Hey, don't start on the political correctness rant now," her father returned in mock severity. "It's not you I have to convince - it's the _guys_ here." 

Her brows descended in skepticism. " _That_ will take some doing." 

"Well, I'd better pull it off, if we're going to get out of this." The President revolved back to their waiting observers. "I'm serious. Forget about titles; forget about power; forget about _privilege._ I'm not in any more or less danger than any of you. The political influence that comes with my office is of no benefit here." 

"Actually, sir," Ron interposed, "it is. The rescue efforts will be _very_ swift. Far more so than for just about anyone else in the world." 

His protectee grunted. "Okay, fair point. But I'm afraid that's the limit to the advantages I'm bringing to the table. Until they get through to us, we're on our own. We're in a state of democracy in the truest sense. We're _equals._ I'm no different from the rest of you, and I expect to be treated accordingly." 

"Right." That sarcastic retort came from Leo. 

Bartlet glared at his old friend. "Damned right I'm right. We ten have been reduced to the single most basic common denominator: our brains and our strength. We have to use all the resources we have - and that includes my own. I may be the oldest person here." He probably was, if only by a couple of years. "And I may be the heaviest." He wasn't really overweight, but he possessed a large bone framework, broad shoulders and a broad chest, and his job allowed next to no time for physical exercise. "That makes me the weak link in our survival chain. But I'll do my full share of the work. _All_ of our lives depend upon it." 

From the looks he was getting now, none of his companions had ever considered him in such a light before. 

"Is this sinking in? We're all human: no more, no less. Each one of us is worth exactly the same. We'll work together - oh, and before someone brings up this minor aspect, we'll be _rescued_ together. As of this moment, all class barriers are outlawed. I don't want to hear one word about the order of evacuation or somebody being considered less important than somebody else. Got it?" 

Toby shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, adopting the trademark Ziegler battle stance. "Whether you like it or not, Mr. President, you're going to be the first one out." He cut off his leader's protest with a wave that encompassed all the members of this gathering. "You think any of us here wouldn't trade our lives for yours in an instant?" 

The surrounding expressions of loyalty and dedication agreed fully with him. 

Both patriotism and personal friendship demanded no less, and not even their Commander-in-Chief himself could pretend otherwise. He blinked, clearly moved to have it so bluntly expressed and so promptly endorsed. 

However, he had never wanted that honor before - and he wanted it even less now. 

"As I recall, two of you are _paid_ to do that very thing. But it's not going to happen. I don't intend to leave _anyone_ behind. Besides, name one other person in the world whose death has been provided for as meticulously as mine." 

Silence thudded to the deck. 

This was not about the political might of the man in the office. This was about the distinction and indeed the reverence that the man was entitled to receive... and yet how isolated he could be, how genuinely helpless - just like any other mortal. It was as the man, not the office, that Bartlet faced this crisis. For once, it would not be the President's elected power, but his _natural_ power that presided. 

He forged ahead, before anyone could renew the argument. "Okay. Now that we've settled that issue, let's apply it. What _can_ we do? Byron, you have the floor." 

Ron stepped back with not too much ill grace; Hyde stepped forward with confidence. A first-name basis was a distraction _and_ an honor. 

"Well, sir, I can give you some good news right off the bat. With a critical situation in both the stern and the bow, Sherwood is the sensible spot for us to seek shelter, and the boys upstairs know this. The rescue efforts will look here first." 

Then he paused, not an encouraging sign. 

"Go on," Leo prompted, assuming his familiar role as military advisor to the President. "Don't start sugar-coating it now." 

"The disadvantage is that this is also the hardest area to reach - being amidships and on the lower deck. The only way in is through the two hatches on this level, one at either end. Between the power spike and the forward explosion, the entire boat has been virtually sealed off. The fire, at least, _must_ be contained before anyone can reach us. That'll take time." 

Leo gritted his teeth. "How _much_ time? What if the flames breach the torpedoes completely? And what about radiation poisoning? Just how thick _are_ these walls and doors, anyway?" 

Their captain raised a calming hand. "Every hatch on a boat is waterproof, radiation-shielded and pressurized. So are the bulkheads. The radiation can move through the ventilation system, and the smoke too \- but I shut the vents down. So we're safe enough for now." 

"Fire needs three things to burn," Bartlet pitched in, never losing an opportunity to educate others. "Heat, fuel and oxygen. And _we_ need oxygen as well. Now it'll take some time for ten pairs of lungs to consume all the air in this steel cavern, but I presume there will be a real threat of suffocation when we try to leave." 

"For sure, any rescue will have to include air tanks for all of us. Probably radiation suits as well." 

"Is there any equipment like that already in here and accessible?" Ron demanded. 

"No." Hyde met his angry glare wearily. "On a boat there's no point in providing that kind of kit, because you're too self-contained. There's simply nowhere else to run. We do have radiation suits for the people who work on or near the reactor, for just such an emergency as this. But of course, they're all stored near the reactor itself. In the stern." 

"All this tells us is that we're _really_ stuck here," Leo concluded. "Any move we make will only let in radiation, fire or water. We'd end up killing ourselves that much faster." 

"I don't buy that." The President quashed any objection flat. "There's got to be something we can do. We can't just sit here and wait; the air _will_ eventually run out, and this whole boat could still blow completely." He shot the Commander a telling glance. "And then there's the matter of the lighting. You mentioned batteries?" 

"Yes, sir. The back-up plant is independent of the reactor, of course. But it does have a finite charge." 

"So if we _are_ going to do something, we'd better do it while we can see, before the batteries die - and the lights with them." 

A wave of fresh terror rippled through them all at the mere thought of being plunged into absolute blackness. Like they didn't have enough to worry about already. 

Hyde raised a pacifying hand. "They'll last awhile yet. They're located in the stern, but the radiation can't do anything to them. I'm frankly more worried about fire damage. Radiation contaminates. Fire destroys." 

"We won't just _sink,_ will we?" This came from DeSoto. Up until now he'd remained in the background, too shy to participate. However, from the sound of it he had suddenly been seized by the first fear of any sailor: drowning. The idea of drowning in darkness made it all the more horrifying. His voice climbed the register a few notes higher than normal. "Can't they tie this bucket to the dock and keep us afloat that way?" 

"Ever hear of the 'Normandie'?" Bartlet asked. He breezed past the annoyed shifting at what appeared to be a poorly-timed executive impulse to spout trivia. Or, perhaps he was employing this familiar trait in an effort to mask his persistent phobic nervousness and to reinforce his self-control. "An ocean liner, and a beautiful one. She was in New York harbor in the middle of World War II, being converted into a troop ship, when she caught fire at the dock. The firefighters flooded her with so much water that she capsized in her berth. Her moorings couldn't hold her upright. Now that was a much bigger ship that the 'Callanan', of course, but the principle is the same. Not even steel hawsers can hold a vessel upright against too much water intake. Capstans and bollards aren't designed for that kind of strain, either. The sheer mass of water in any decent quantity is staggering." 

"Sir..." Leo broke in, using a quiet, familiar tone designed to bring his boss back on track. He had employed it with effect countless times in their past history. 

"My point, Leo, is that you don't have to be a naval expert to see the flaw in Johnny's thought here. If this sub starts to tip, no one will be able to stop her. And if she winds up on her side underwater in the mud, getting out will become a bit _more_ challenging. How deep are these berths, anyway, Byron?" 

"Deep enough to submerge a boat completely; they have to be. I would like to point out," Hyde continued, "that sinking is one thing we _won't_ have to worry about anytime soon. Even with extensive flooding, we'll still stay afloat so long as the ballast tanks are pressurized and capable of maintaining positive buoyancy. Which they currently are." 

DeSoto released a long breath of pure relief. 

So did Ellie, for that matter. 

Their skipper gazed somberly at both young people. "But the danger to everyone _else_ is the fact that we _are_ floating." 

The sudden pause after that unexpected statement did justice to its forbidding implications. 

"Huh?" Bartlet said first. 

"What?" Leo endorsed. 

"Why?" Ron demanded 

"Wait." 

Every head turned - towards Toby. 

He held up a hand, as though requesting silence. Everyone obliged. 

No one heard anything. But they _felt_ something. 

Not the extremely faint hum underfoot of the sub engines in idle, as when they had first boarded. Not the intense, internal vibration against the inner ear of the misbehaving reactor, as when it had spiked and started all this. What they felt was motion. Genuine, perceptive motion that made the deck roll ever so slightly. 

"We're moving." Toby balanced the weight of his body on both feet. "And not under our own power." 

Lung moved to the nearest bulkhead and rested his fingertips against bald metal. "Confirmed: the engines are still dead." 

Now that sounded surreal. This vessel needed its own engines to move... didn't it? How else could it go anywhere? 

If possible, Hyde looked even more grave. "I knew this was going to happen." 

_"What?"_ Leo repeated, much more forcefully this time. 

"We won't be staying in dock, come what may." 

_"Why?"_ Now Ron repeated himself. 

The Commander grimly surveyed his fellow prisoners. "You can be sure they're evacuating the area, and bringing in the rescue teams to get through to us. But no one will keep a vessel in dock with a critical reactor." He braced himself before delivering the _coup de grâce._

"They're going to tow this boat out to deep water... and scuttle her." 

THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM / TRIDENT 

"SCUTTLE HER?" Josh's voice sliced through the otherwise silent Situation Room like a white-hot knife. 

Nancy McNally stood at the head of the polished table in the subdued lighting of what was arguably the most secure and most critical conference chamber in the world. Behind her shone a projection on the wall of the "Callanan's" technical blueprints. Around her sat the elite of the United States Armed Forces. 

Her perpetually stern features for once reflected at least a bit of compassion. Her purpose, however, did not falter in the least. "I'm sorry, Josh, but there simply is no option." 

The Deputy Chief of Staff swayed and almost fell right over, utterly stunned by what he had just been told. 

Fitzwallace's voice came clearly through the open phone line. "The two tugs are hooked up and have 'Navy One' moving. They'll get her down the Thames and out to sea as fast as possible. As soon as I have an accurate idea how long this will take, I'll let you know." 

Josh stood behind the chair where Leo would have sat, beside the place reserved for the President at the table's far end... the operative word in this sentence being "stood." No way was he prepared to sit and pretend to be comfortable in such imposing company. He must have felt like a barely-tolerated guest, a full-fledged intruder, an undisciplined and inexperienced child before the gathered might of the nation's military. 

Besides, right now he needed that chair just to hold, to grip like a life preserver. 

"I've requisitioned the cruiser 'Houston' to play escort. She has the firepower to do the job quickly." Somehow the Chairman got that out in an even tone. 

"You... you're saying that... that you're going to... to..." Josh could not put words together. His brain had been almost shut down by the horrid thoughts crashing through it. 

Fitz exhaled audibly. "It's the _only_ option when a reactor goes critical. It's hot and it's going to stay hot. Water's the one thing that will neutralize it. _Deep_ water." 

"You can't - you _can't_ just SINK it!" Josh almost screamed at them all. All of these dress uniforms, these impassive faces, these experts in military matters and international crises... couldn't they see that there _had_ to be an alternative? 

Nancy never took her eyes off him. "Regardless of _who_ is on board, our first priority is to nullify the sub's threat before its reactor reaches the meltdown point. The electrical backlash has already set off one torpedo. If it happens again, every other armament could go, which will effectively destroy the boat. _That_ will be what spreads the radiation." 

Josh kept shaking his head dazedly. "No... no, there's _got_ to be another way..." 

The National Security Advisor pressed her point. "There wouldn't be so much a mushroom cloud over the dock, but a radioactive explosion that would ionize the oxygen/hydrogen in the area and literally fry anyone within a mile or so radius. Then it would spread. Good-bye to Groton dock and New London first, with others to follow." 

Josh's eyes grew even rounder. By now his frenzied headshake might have been as much in protest of such a nightmare scenario coming true as in opposition to the steps recommended to prevent it. 

"In a way," Fitz's disembodied voice added, "this would be even worse than a pony bomb going off. It's 'dirty.' A nuclear detonation is comparatively clean: all over very quickly, and centered on its own ground zero. This is a meltdown, and in a populated area. You've got the residuals, the water contamination, air - pray for a cloudless, windless day - and explosions that _keep_ going off, spreading it further." 

"And a military grade reactor has a half-life of over a thousand years," Nancy went on relentlessly. "It won't stop at just poisoning New England." 

Somehow, Josh forced his brain through this horror. They had a valid argument, but - "But... but... _the President!_ " 

No person, much less a woman, rose to the head of the National Security Council without a diamond core of resolution and the strength of will to stand by the hard choices. Nancy held her stance. "One man is not worth keeping the 'Callanan' in dock, no matter who he is. That sub _has_ to be moved from populated waters. We're talking millions of lives at stake, not just the President's. And the President, if he were capable of doing so, would order it." 

No one contested that fact. If they could ask Bartlet right now, every person present knew he would agree to die rather than be the death of others. 

But, whether because of the radiation or because the Secret Service radios had been damaged... or because the trapped individuals were unable to use those radios at all... no one could reach him. 

THE WEST WING 

"You've got to keep the press away." 

C.J. paced towards the door to the Press Room and back again. "I can keep them away from me. I can even keep them away from the White House. But, much as I wish I could do the miraculous, I can't keep them away from the President. It's not humanly possible." 

"I suggest you try," Will advised, softly yet with no hesitation. 

A few yards away, the West Wing seethed with the hyperactivity of full-blown crisis. This short corridor leading from the Communications bullpen to the briefing room was almost peaceful by comparison... a small haven in the heart of the storm, nestled between two sources of unmitigated chaos. 

"I've had some experience in this, fly-boy. I can order them off until I'm blue in the face and hoarse in the throat. But outside these walls I have no authority over them. They don't _care_ about the danger! They only care about the story! _And this is a story!_ " 

"Do they care about military reprisal? Do they care about _dying_ for the story?" 

This time the Press Secretary stopped. She looked at Will sharply. She looked at the door between her and a starving pack of reporters who were determined to squeeze - or rip - every mote of information from her that they could. Then she looked back again. 

"I know at least a few who'd take even _that_ risk. They wouldn't hesitate to hire a chopper and hover over the base all day. In fact I'll be amazed if someone hasn't taken that route already. They won't care if Fitzwallace himself orders them away. They're tenacious. It's part of their job." 

"They may be tenacious, but they're probably not suicidal. At least I hope not, for their sake." Will leaned back against the side wall, arms folded. "This is not only a military operation, it's also a national security issue." 

"You don't have to tell me that!" 

"Well, someone has to tell _them_ that. I'll tell _you_ what's happening in the skies over Trident right now. Military aircraft will have secured the area, and they'll have a shoot-down order." Will said that flatly, with no dramatization at all. "And the Air Force doesn't bluff." 

Pause. 

"I hope to God they'll believe me. The _next_ to last thing I want to have happen now is some gung-ho reporter deciding to risk it and living only long enough to regret it." C.J. shuddered at the thought. 

Will lowered his gaze. "I don't have to ask what the first thing is." 

C.J.'s wince was an eloquent agreement. The _first_ fear had completely taken over the minds of every soul in the White House, and in many other places beyond. 

After a very uncomfortable pause, she raised her head and her voice. "Carol! Anything?" 

"Not yet," the reply floated back from nearby. 

"Damn _it!_ I want more data!" 

Will hiked an eyebrow. "Be careful what you wish for." 

"I'll take my chances. I'd rather know the worst than be kept wondering like this." 

Pause. 

Then C.J. heaved a sigh. "Okay, I have a favor to ask." 

Will cocked his head, resisting all thought of a wisecrack about how much this favor might cost him - or her. Now was most definitely not the time for jokes. 

"I want you to help keep the other staff members informed. This briefing will take awhile, and Josh is still holed up in the Situation Room, and God knows when the next piece of information is going to arrive. If I make sure it comes to you as fast as it would normally get to us... then you can keep everyone in the loop together." 

Slowly, the Deputy Communications Director straightened. "Thanks." 

She nodded, partly in gratitude and partly in tribute. "I've already got the official version from COMSUBPLANT. Still... I appreciate your broad views. Any other details or advice you've got, it'll be welcome." 

He smiled, albeit shyly, at this compliment. 

C.J. didn't, _couldn't_ smile back. She took a few more steps towards that closed door, then stopped. Not at all looking forward to what lay beyond. 

" _Media circus_ doesn't begin to define what's developed already. Evacuating the dock didn't even give it pause. I'm honestly not sure what I'm going to say in there." She revolved, away from the press and back towards her colleague, her tall figure charged with tension. 

"That sub is still being referred to as 'Navy One', which happens _only_ when the President is on board! That tells the entire world that he's still there, and trapped!" She forced herself to put her fears into words, as though by doing so she could wrestle them into control. Or, perhaps it was a case of her not being able to control those fears any longer. "He's right there, so close to help - but absolutely isolated and inaccessible. Quite possibly dead... or dying." 

In the act of hurrying past the mouth of this short corridor, her arms full of files, Donna braked hard. She was busier than ever with Josh sequestered downstairs, but neither work nor haste could deafen her to a statement like that. A statement that punched you in the gut. 

Unaware of her increasing audience, C.J. hugged herself to prevent an all-out attack of shivering. "Toby, Leo, Charlie... my God, _Ellie_... and all the others... How can _anyone_ survive that radiation for long?" 

Donna swallowed painfully, and turned to leave. 

What she saw ahead made her stop again. Her boss had just arrived. 

"Josh?" Her concern vibrated in his name. C.J. and Will both turned at once. 

He approached slowly, almost staggering. His arms hung loose; his shoulders were slumped as if under a merciless weight. He stared straight ahead, features slack, too dazed to focus on people or obstacles or barriers. 

They knew where he'd just been; they knew he had to have information they didn't. 

From his appearance, it had to be information of the worst kind. 

Good Lord, how bad was it? 

Not... 

"Josh?" C.J. probed gently. _Fearfully._

He ground to a halt near them, one shoulder pressed into the closest wall, needing its support just to stay upright. He didn't make eye contact. 

"They're towing the sub out to sea." His voice was low and hoarse. 

The trio leaned in to catch every word. 

"They're afraid of a nuclear explosion. It would contaminate the land for miles around." He was clearly repeating what he'd been told, by rote, with no inflection at all. "The only way to prevent that... is to sink her." 

His female listeners inhaled sharply together. Will's mouth firmed. 

"They've got a rescue team on the way." Josh's head bowed. "But... if they can't get them out in time... if the reactor starts to... to... go..." 

His words faded; he simply couldn't finish. 

So Will finished for him. His military training had anticipated the extreme solution. Suddenly C.J. and Donna realized that he'd expected this all along. 

"They'll sink her first. No matter who's still on board." 


	6. All Things Being Equal 6

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

NAVY ONE 

"You knew this was coming all along, didn't you?" 

"Yes." 

"Then _why_ didn't you tell us sooner?" 

"You think I was looking forward to it? Besides, there was always the chance that the base commander or the Chairman would figure out something else." 

"Come on, you must've _known_ how they'd respond to a nuclear accident! And yet you don't see fit to mention it to _us?_ " 

"Will you look around for a moment? LOOK at us! Eight out of ten are civilians, three are not much more than children, and one is a GIRL! Of COURSE I wasn't going to bring up this possibility until I absolutely had to!" 

The "life boat" rule applies to all emergency situations; someone must be in charge. Dominant personalities will always rise to the fore, eager to take part and have a hand in the resolution. Input is essential, but there has to be a consensus on the final authority. Otherwise all effort will be dissipated uselessly instead of focused. 

"So they're towing us out. And then what?" 

"The SEALs should be here soon, if they aren't already. They'll do everything in their power to get through to us, even during the tow." 

"And if they _can't?_ " 

"So long as the reactor remains relatively stable, they'll keep at it. Right up to the last possible moment." 

"But...?" 

"But if there's another power spike... then they'll have to scuttle us on the spot. Wherever we may be." 

In this case, the captain of the "Callanan" was coming under siege from the White House Chief of Staff (himself with considerable military and strategic experience), the White House Communications Director (a shrewd debater, who never lost an opportunity to argue when he felt like it) and the Special Agent in Charge (who carried the ultimate responsibility for the President, his daughter and his staff members). Their three-on-one confrontation kept Hyde cornered, supplying information yet with no space to provide leadership. 

"So we can't flood the engine room. Is there anything _else_ we can flood that might in any way help?" 

"The only _manual_ sea cogs are the terminal ones - the ones we'd use if we wanted to scuttle her ourselves. But they'd flood the ballast and trim tanks, not the reactor area." 

"Naturally. Nothing _else_ has worked right so far. Why bust that streak now?" 

Donnie had taken a stance well to one side, not participating in this war council. In fact he had positioned himself very carefully: where he could see the President at all times, and where Ron had only to glance up to make eye contact with _him._

"How much water is needed to protect the world from this looming catastrophe?" 

"This river is nowhere near deep enough - hell, it's barely periscope depth! The blast would burst upwards and spread with no difficulty at all. Besides, there are homes on both shores. Plus, once the boat hits bottom, towing her further at a later date is out of the question. She'll have to go down where she's going to stay. Permanently." 

"How deep _are_ we talking here?" 

"I'd say, first guess, that we need at least five hundred feet." 

"FIVE HUNDRED?" 

"No less, if at all possible." 

For much the same reason as the Secret Service operatives, Lung had chosen an equally strategic spot: where Hyde could glance between the three men hemming him in and send any silent messages to _his_ second-in-command. These two conscientious subordinates watched their bosses' backs... and each other. 

"Five hundred - you gotta be kidding. Where are they taking us?" 

"Out past Long Island, for sure." 

"And that'll take how long?" 

"Depends on how badly the boat is damaged up front and how well she tows. Anywhere between seven and ten hours." 

"Hours...!" 

"Which brings us back to square one. We're just standing around here, waiting to be blown to bits - or executed." 

" _Or_ rescued." 

"Seriously, what are the odds of that? No, wait. _Don't_ tell me." 

Charlie strolled past this four-way altercation with fair nonchalance, pulling up beside Eleanor. He was the youngest person present, she the second youngest. Nothing could be more normal than for them to gravitate towards each other. 

She didn't turn to him. She kept her attention on her father, who stood some yards off in silent, private contemplation. 

"How you doing?" her father's body man asked softly. 

She nodded once, a mechanical motion. "Okay." 

"Good." Charlie waited a moment, measuring her mood. "It's gonna be fine." 

This time she did turn. Her manner projected more apprehension than terror, but the terror was still there. She held his eye for several seconds before replying. "Yeah." 

Clearly she didn't believe him. 

He didn't take offense. "You know Zoey's gonna be mad that you cheated her out of this adventure." 

Ellie's mouth twitched once, twice, and then yielded to a brief grin. "You've been taking lessons from my dad, haven't you?" 

"Hey, I learn from the best." 

That almost made her laugh out loud. Despite the discomfort that even the staff could detect between these two members of the First Family - at least in normal circumstances, with no pressing distraction from their natural personality conflicts - she seemed quite a different person around others. It did help when those others were laid-back, soft-spoken, and gave her equal opportunity to steer the conversation. 

Charlie waited another few beats. "How's _he_ doing?" 

At last they had arrived at the real subject of concern for both of them. 

This subject remained a bit secluded from everyone else. Motionless, hands in pockets, head bowed, paying attention to nothing and no one, he appeared to be lost in his thoughts. What those thoughts might be, no one could guess. Odds were that a large percentage encompassed demons of his mind's own making. For this gregarious personality and speaker to _not_ take part in any lively barrage was telling to the extreme. 

"I think he's all right now. It's fairly open here, and things are quiet." Then his daughter gave Charlie a sharp look. "You knew?" 

"About the phobia? Not before today. I don't remember any other time when he so much as flinched. And we've been in a few cramped quarters before." Still, it was a measure of how well Charlie did know the President that he put the pieces together so quickly. 

"Well, this situation is a bit extreme." Ellie shrugged helplessly. "I don't know who _does_ know. It's like the MS all over again." 

Both paused. 

And then, in perfect unison, both whirled towards each other - and around. Fast. _Knowing_ there was someone right behind them. 

DeSoto stood less than two feet away. 

He jumped backwards, caught red-handed. Despite his silence, they'd somehow sensed his approach. 

Charlie exhaled angrily. "You know, that's _more_ than rude." 

"Sorry." The reporter ducked his head - mostly at Ellie, who just glared at him. 

Charlie was even more furious. He never made excuses for being protective of his boss. "So, you gonna write about this also?" 

"I... don't know." 

Ellie placed a restraining hand on the personal aide's arm. "It's okay. You heard what my father said before: no restrictions." She drew herself up, not in the least intimidated by DeSoto's height or occupation. "You want to publish _another_ weakness the President has? Go ahead. MS can endanger his job _and_ his life; claustrophobia won't. But I'm sure there are people out there who'll love to know that extra detail, just so they can take advantage of it and make life even _more_ difficult for him." 

DeSoto wilted a bit more. "Look, I'm sorry for eavesdropping. Honest. I was just coming over to see if... if you wanted to talk or something." 

After a long, calculating pause, Ellie nodded. By her take, he meant it. 

"Actually, I think he's doing great." The reporter naturally wanted to make up for his gaffe, and compliments almost always work... but he did sound sincere. "All the responsibilities he has, then being stuck here, and the phobia on top of that - and he's calm as anything." 

"Yeah..." Ellie agreed slowly. "It looks that way. He's always been good at hiding aches and pains from others." The concern filtered into her quiet voice. 

"Here's something else," Charlie offered just as quietly. "He's known from the first that he could easily die in office. In a weird way, I think knowing it helps; he just doesn't fear death that much. He doesn't even think about it. It probably lets him focus better." 

DeSoto mulled this over. 

"A little faith in God can go a long way too," Ellie added even more softly. 

All three fell silent, studying the profile of the most powerful man in the world. He didn't look very powerful at this moment. 

DeSoto articulated that very thought - suddenly, as though the concept had just dawned on him. "Man, it's like watching a lion at the zoo." 

Both of his companions rotated in confusion. 

"Don't you see? It's like he's caged. Crippled. All the strength he has... all the power... and it's _useless._ " 

Ellie's vision turned inward at this astute and unpleasant observation - an observation with a dual meaning. Sure, they had a serious problem right here and now. Meanwhile, the shadow of diminishing health, what that dreaded disease might eventually do to her father in the future, lent a whole new dimension to the concept of "trapped." 

Charlie didn't take as long to think about it. "Maybe. But I'll tell you this, Johnny: unlike his family, I've only ever known the President _as_ the President. The political power has always been there. But I've also seen a side of him than has nothing to do with that power. There's a whole lot more to him than his office." 

That viewpoint had DeSoto nodding thoughtfully. 

Jed Bartlet remained oblivious to this appraisal of his worth. However, for the first time in some little while, he moved. His head rose. His eyes scanned their surroundings... and fastened on one particular object that his young watchers couldn't identify. 

His whole posture straightened with new purpose. 

The "discussion" not far away was heating up even more. 

"What would it take to cut a new door into this tin can? From the outside, so that _they_ can let the water in?" 

"Forget it. This is a refurbished Ohio class boat. The pressure hull isn't thick, but it's _titanium._ That single hull can withstand depth pressures up to two thousand feet, and an oblique heavy torpedo hit as well!" 

"Well, surely there's _some_ way they could blow a hole in the stern! That's where you're telling us the reactor is. What can another breach possibly do to make our situation worse? It'd even match the one in the bow; balance things out -" 

"It could also jar some of _our_ torpedoes. Do you want that? There's no titanium bulkhead between the forward or stern bays and this compartment!" 

"Fellas." 

That simple, low-key interruption captured everyone's attention at once. 

The President regarded them calmly. "I've got an idea. I thought I'd give fair warning; you might want to brace yourselves." 

Leo flickered a grin; Toby just tilted his head inquiringly. Hyde looked relieved to have a different contributor. Ron, as usual, gave no hint of his opinion. 

On the sidelines, Lung and Donnie likewise held their peace and their places. Ellie, though, started edging forward. Charlie and DeSoto stayed right with her, magnetized by whatever their leader was about to say. 

"Byron?" 

The Commander gave just the barest start. Few people were granted the privilege of such a personal address from their Commanders-in-Chief; military personnel could be expected to have the hardest time adapting. "Sir?" 

"What do you call these things again?" Bartlet casually hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the enormous red towers arrayed behind him. Judging from his attitude alone, they couldn't possibly be that important... or that dangerous. 

"Ballistic missile silos." By contrast, Hyde's tone acknowledged the full weight of their lethal potential. 

"Right, silos. I come from a farm; you'd think I'd remember that." The Man gazed up, up, all the way to the ceiling far above. "Of course, mine isn't a working farm per se. But for my money, these monsters look bigger than any grain silo I've ever seen." 

Toby started shuffling his feet. Even without the earlier command for equality, he seldom failed to tell his leader exactly what he thought. No doubt right now he was thinking that any executive tangent which didn't help them should be discouraged. 

"Any missiles in there right now?" Bartlet asked, surprisingly relaxed. 

Several people tensed up at the very thought of warheads _so close_ \- 

Hyde shook his head. "No, sir. Never on a VIP tour, and certainly not on _yours._ " 

DeSoto slumped a bit in unanticipated relief. 

The President pretended to look insulted. "Hey, what'd I say about jettisoning the ranks around here?" 

"Right, sorry. The missiles aren't to be loaded until after the plank cruise anyway." 

"Okay, then. At least we won't have to worry about triggering one of _them._ Now I presume, based upon all the laws of science and war, that these silos have doors or hatches at the top in order to launch their payload. I don't see how else it could be done." 

"Yes, sir..." 

"Which means they have egress to the outside deck. Now if someone up there were to apply the right amount of force in just the right spot...?" 

"Afraid not." The Commander's immediate counter dashed the first tiny spark of hope. "For the same reason no one can cut a new door in the boat's side. The hull _and_ hatches are all designed to handle tremendous levels of stress, both from the ocean depths and from any possible incursion. And if our would-be rescuers try too hard, there's no telling what chain-reaction they might -" 

"WAIT!" 

Everyone spun around to stare at Wayne Lung. 

He positively glowed with excitement. " _We_ can open them from _here!_ " 

"You can?" Ron pounced first. 

Hyde shook his head again, this time in wonder. "...That's _right._ My God, I can't believe I never thought of that. It's a safety feature, so that the crew can dump a hot missile that's running wild on them. Of course, Lieutenant Lung and I are part of the plank crew, not the _permanent_ crew. But that's no excuse..." 

" _Any_ silo?" Leo whirled on the two closest, perfectly smooth metal pillars. 

Lung wasn't through yet. "But the ASDS - the Special Ops silos - are way easier to get into. And they have _ladders!_ " 

"Which ones are they?" 

"The two farthest forward. Come on!" Lung started in that direction at once. 

"That would also be closer to the fire," Toby reminded them all, soberly. "And the water." 

Ellie shot a fast glance at her father. He'd started to perspire again. 

"One of those two adapted silos would be our best bet by far," Hyde agreed. "No ladders in the others; that'd interfere with the firing of the missiles. I doubt any of us want to try climbing a rope dropped down from someone at the top, and it'd be slower anyway. The ASDS silos _are_ easier to access; the SEALs time everything, and they pack a lot of equipment. Don't worry about the forward bulkhead; it'll hold for a long time yet." 

Bartlet made the call, his voice firm and determined no matter what he was feeling. "Then lead the way." 

They set off quickly down the center aisle of this mammoth underwater chamber. Several uneasy glances turned towards the silent, gargantuan cylinders on either flank. Perhaps the nickname "Sherwood Forest" made some sense after all: there was a peculiar resemblance to the trunks of gigantic trees. Two dozen in total, several yards apart and at least two yards in diameter each, dwarfing everything else... but now they represented something other than the means for guided destruction. They offered the first hope of escape - of survival. 

Toby fell into step beside his boss. "Well done, sir." 

The President made an attempt at modesty. "Pure reason, Toby. Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, _however_ improbable, _must_ be the truth." 

"Oh, so now you're stealing lines from Sherlock Holmes?" As a writer, one of the deadliest sins in Toby's eyes was plagiarism. 

"I'll steal lines from whomever I damned well please if it'll get us out of here." 

"I won't say you nay to that." 

"I thought not." 

Ellie edged up on the other side. "Me neither. Way to go." 

From her father's expression, _her_ praise surpassed all else. Even so, he still managed to preserve some humor. "I'm just trying to be useful in _some_ capacity here..." 

"I'd say you succeeded." Her volume descended until no one else could hear. "Doesn't matter what the incentive might be." 

He held her knowing eye for one long moment, suddenly looking uncomfortable. She knew him better than he realized at times. Had his fear of both fire and enclosed places driven him to work even harder towards a solution, in a desperate effort to escape both horrors? If so, his mental stress had produced a totally unlooked-for benefit. 

Charlie and DeSoto strode side by side not far behind. "Remember what we were just talking about?" the body man said with a smug grin. 

"I gotcha there." The reporter pursed his lips in a soundless whistle, clearly impressed. "He doesn't need the office at all. He's gotta be the smartest guy here!" 

"Bet your life." 

DeSoto hesitated. "We _are,_ you know." 

Charlie's grin only widened. "I'm not worried yet." 

As they neared the end of the silos' double line, all ten could finally see the forward bulkhead just beyond. 

They all knew what raged on the other side of that wall... 

Bartlet slowed his pace. He might not have even been aware that he did. Ellie stuck right by him. 

"Lieutenant, check that hatch again," Hyde ordered. 

"Aye, sir." 

"It's definitely warmer at this end of the room," Leo observed first, uneasily. 

"My order was just a precaution; there's no way the fire can melt its way through. These bulkheads are built to take it." 

The President tore his eyes from that lone steel barrier between him and the flames. "I prefer the cold," he muttered, so softly that only his daughter heard. 

Lung returned in mere seconds this time. "Warmer than before, but still sound." 

His captain nodded. "Fine. Here's what we want." 

The last two silos had been painted green instead of red, a glaring sign of different function. At the base of each was a large, sealed portal fully seven feet by four, painted white so that there could be no trouble finding them in a rush. 

"You mean, all we have to do is open this door?" Toby inquired, as though he could not believe it was so simple. And after all the arguing they'd just been through... 

Hyde nodded calmly. "This and the two upper hatches, and we can all climb out." 

"What about radiation exposure on the external deck?" Ron asked next. 

"Not a problem in the open air; it's contained below. This time the hull will work in our favor. Anyway, we won't be hanging around long; by now rescue should be right at hand." 

Leo frowned. "So how do we get in?" The obviously reinforced door sported a very formidable locking lever. 

"With this little control box right here." Hyde reached for the knob of the box in question, mounted on the silo wall. 

It resisted his tug, refusing to swing open. 

"Of course it would be locked. Security protocol. Lieutenant, there should be a tool kit and key case in that corner." 

Lung went off to fetch the required equipment. A pause descended while everyone waited for the pass-code out of here. 

Hyde drew himself up. "Mr. President." 

"Byron." Bartlet's reply contained some pointed stress. However, judging from the rueful shake of the Commander's head, their Chief Executive wouldn't be addressed by his first name anytime soon. 

Truth be known, his employees would probably be more offended by any failure to address The Man by his title than _he_ ever could be. 

"I just wanted to say, sir, that your idea may well end up saving us all." 

Their leader blushed a bit. "Well, maybe - but don't let it get around, okay? People expect too much of me as is." 

Everyone was looking at him in admiration... and at least a little surprise. Surprise that this erudite economics professor with the quirky nature was capable of some real daring-do when needed. Surprise that this sixty-year-old grandfather with no military experience, who lived in a luxury matched by few monarchs and was long accustomed to having the most mundane things done for him, had tackled and surmounted such a _physical_ challenge on his own. Surprise that this long-time politician could be so totally cut off from all of his tremendous influence and authority and _safety_ \- and still demonstrate such calm intent, brilliant reasoning and masterful leadership. Even his staffers, who knew him well, had not expected him to pluck the solution to their extremity out of thin air just like that. Even his daughter, glowing with pride, could not have predicted it. 

"Captain." Lung reappeared, breaking the spell. For some reason no one else knew or liked, his eagerness earlier had vanished. 

His hands - were empty. 

"No equipment, sir. No keys, no tools. Nothing." 

Silence. 

_"What?"_ Leo got it out first. 

"You mean to say this boat is not properly equipped?" Ron's initial disappointment was fast submerged by pure anger. 

Toby resignedly pocketed both fists. "We're _too_ close to getting out... I knew something had to happen." 

"Damn." Hyde looked downright distressed. "We haven't been fully supplied yet. The plank tour wasn't for another three days! And it wasn't going to include Special Ops maneuvers anyway! Still, equipment like that _has_ to be on hand! Fire extinguishers, tool boxes, axes... And we don't store them behind plexi cases, either." 

"Maybe they're in one of the crates stacked in the corridor," Lung suggested. 

"Oh, a lot of good they'll do us out _there._ " 

Ron glowered at the white steel door before them, as though his laser vision could burn a hole straight through it. "Can we force the hatch?" 

"Don't try. The silos must be flooded and equalized before their missiles can be launched, and the SEALs might have to make an underwater exit. This means the access hatches are pressurized just like everything else. Besides, none of them have been opened since they were installed months ago, so they'll be extra-stiff. That's what the shakedown is for: working out the bugs." Hyde let out a long breath. "All the controls we need are inside this box." He tried again to yank open said box, again without success. "It's not as heavily built as the hatch, but we can't pry it off with bare hands. We need some kind of tool. We need to improvise." 

"There has to be _something_ around. This place sure is big enough." Leo started checking the floor, as though against all odds a crowbar might have been left lying carelessly around by the ultra-neat United States Navy. Almost everyone followed his lead. 

Donnie was the exception. He looked up. 

"Sir?" He probably wanted Ron's attention only, but he got a bonus eight others. "What about up there?" 

The actual roof to this gigantic compartment rose way out of reach, even with the multiple levels of steel catwalks running back and forth. However, right over the forward hatch the ceiling was much lower, only about ten feet. No doubt it had been designed thus in order to provide a bit more floor space for the upper deck, since missile control monopolized a huge chunk of both levels. The ceiling area itself had been closed off with more of the simple steel mesh panels so prevalent all over the submarine: unprepossessing, yet sturdy and functional. 

Through that mesh, just visible in the shadows, they could see a jumble of metal objects that certainly resembled workman's tools. 

"Excellent," Hyde pronounced. "If we can reach that panel and get it off, those tools will get us into the control box, and from there we can open the silo." 

"Except for the trifling fact that we'll still need tools of some kind to get the panel off," Toby pointed out with his usual morose demeanor. "And we need to get the panel off in order to get at the tools!" 

The Commander scowled - not at Toby so much as at their ironic situation. "But the panel will take less effort than the control box. At least _it's_ not designed with security in mind. Surely we can find something to do _that!_ " 

The President had been silent too long. "From what I've seen so far, I doubt we'll find it on the floor. This place is neater than the Residence." He nudged his daughter. "You could take lessons from these guys!" 

" _Dad_..." All the embarrassment that children ever felt for their parents' teasing could be heard in Ellie's reply. 

Oddly enough, with escape from a phobic situation so close, that is when it can become the strongest. Bartlet seemed to be trying to calm _everyone_ down a bit - himself as well. 

Ron made the appeal at large. "Everyone, check your pockets. See if you have anything that might be used as a screwdriver, or a pry." 

Everyone complied... save for The Man himself, who never carried keys or similar ordinary objects at all anymore. 

And DeSoto. 

The reporter's expression had taken on a sickly cast, as though he couldn't quite bear to do what he felt he must. He watched as everyone else came up empty, without a plausible tool at hand anywhere. He shifted the camera bag hanging from his shoulder. 

Then, slowly, he slid it off. Set it on the floor, and knelt beside it. Opened it. 

When he raised his head, everyone else was standing still and watching him. The silence seemed to ring with a volume all its own. 

In that silence, he held up his large, metal camera. His features were tortured. 

Bartlet moved forward alone, very slowly, and descended to one knee. His sky-blue eyes held the newsman's midnight-black eyes steadily. 

DeSoto heaved a sigh. "This was my first camera, ever." 

"And it contains the photos you've taken today, right?" 

"Yes, sir." Any photographer would hesitate here. "If we use the camera, I lose the film. It's irreplaceable." From the way things were shaping up, those photos would be the only shots of the interior to the "USS Callanan". Ever. 

The President nodded in full understanding. His next words came out with reluctance. "Well, if we _don't_ use the camera... you might lose something even _more_ irreplaceable. _You._ " 

Another pause. "Yeah." Another sigh. "This camera's done me well in the past. I guess I shouldn't complain if it also saves my life." 

Then DeSoto blinked. " _Our_ lives." 

One of them being the President of the United States. 

Bartlet waited. No matter that this privately-owned equipment could well be their sole hope for survival; he had no right to take it away, and no right to pressure its owner into surrendering it. Even here, even now, he refused to disallow the feelings and worth of others. And so he waited, not rushing this young man in the least. 

Much of the regret bled away. DeSoto straightened, drew a deep breath, and extended the prized possession. 

His leader accepted it. "Thanks, Johnny. I know that wasn't easy." He stood, and placed a fatherly hand on the photographer's shoulder. "If it's any consolation, after we get out of here I will personally buy you a new one. You can pick out the finest model there is." 

DeSoto would have been less than human not to feel a surge of delight at the thought. 

"As for the film, that's too bad. But then, I would've asked you not to publish any shots of anyone who didn't make it." 

More than one of the gathered witnesses winced. 

The Man promptly waved that idea away. "Oh, relax. I'd have seen to that if it were necessary, but now we all know that it won't be, because the _film_ is what's not going to make it. In fact, I say ruining the film is a guarantee that we'll _all_ make it!" 

Ellie just had to giggle. 

"Now let's let the expert show us how it's done." Bartlet turned and almost formally presented the camera to the boat's skipper. 

Curiously, Hyde seemed to be paying no attention to his Commander-in-Chief at all. He stood with feet planted well apart, as though bracing against an ocean swell, and his head tilted, as though listening for the sound of the surf. 

His fellow prisoners exchanged glances of wonder, and of concern. They knew they were moving; the floor continued to roll just a bit, a sensation so slight that they'd already become accustomed to it. What had captured his attention this time? 

After several more seconds of increasing tension had ticked past, Hyde came out of his trance - to find himself the center of attraction. But before anyone could ask, he reached for the inner pocket to his uniform jacket and removed a ballpoint pen. This he partly disassembled, extracting the cylindrical ink cartridge. 

Everyone watched his every move, not sure what he had in mind, yet knowing that there was a purpose to all this. By association alone, whatever _this_ was would almost certainly affect them as well. 

Now Hyde crouched down, and placed the cartridge flat on the floor. 

When he let go, it slowly started to roll. Like all compartments, the deck of missile control was smooth; the slim cartridge gathered a bit more speed. 

Ten pairs of eyes tracked its progress without a word. Ten minds grasped the significance. It was rolling straight towards the forward hatch. Towards the bow of the sub. 

Their captain did not have to interpret what this experiment showed; the implication was obvious. But he said it anyway. He'd known instinctively what was happening, just from the feel... and now he had the proof. 

"We're taking on water, all right. The bow's going under." 


	7. All Things Being Equal 7

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

THE WEST WING 

The whole world had watched it happen; now the whole world followed along, minute by excruciating minute. News anchors detailed and extrapolated on every TV and radio channel in existence, repeating the same thing over and over. 

"We can confirm that there was a serious accident at the Groton submarine base just north of New London, Connecticut, less than half an hour ago. President Bartlet was there today to tour the Navy's newest submarine, the 'USS Callanan'. This is a nuclear sub, and something seems to have gone wrong with its reactor..." 

The recorded explosion at Trident was constantly replayed, as were the images of the President arriving to tour the new vessel that now held him prisoner. 

"The submarine is being towed down the Thames River, away from residential areas. Judging from the explosion seen here, its bow has certainly been damaged, although we do not know the full extent of the damage at this time. We do know, however, that the President and his party were still on board the sub when the explosion took place - and we know that none of them have exited the sub since. We know from video records taken during the dockside ceremony that the party also included the President's twenty-seven-year-old daughter, Eleanor; the President's Chief of Staff, Leo McGarry; the President's Communications Director, Toby Ziegler; and at least two senior officers of the new vessel's crew. We _do not_ know whether or not the President or anyone else survived the explosion, or the reactor upset..." 

Disregarding both risk and military instruction, reporters and camera-wielders flocked to the riverbanks. No photographer could have resisted the chance for that Pulitzer-winning photo of the year. From different locations and different angles they all broadcast the exact same image: the small tugs and the tall cruiser towing this coal-black sub, riding low in the water and obviously not under her own power. Smoke continued to rise from the forward loading hatch, much as it would rise from the chimney of a crematorium. 

"We still have very limited information. All members of the press who were present for the President's visit have been evacuated from the base. The Department of Defense has issued an order to clear the Thames River of all civilian watercraft, and all citizens living in the region are to stay inside their homes until further notice. There definitely appears to be a genuine threat of a nuclear explosion at literally any moment. You can see on this map that the submarine is still very close to New London, the most heavily populated area along the Thames..." 

The Navy did its best to chase _everyone_ out of the zone. This wasn't an exhibition, or a weekend festival; this was a brand-new nuclear vessel, with Defense top-secret equipment and some _very_ dangerous materials on board. This was a military operation involving a serious, personal threat to the leader of the free world. Ideally, no one besides the Armed Forces would be within a five-mile radius. However, not even the Armed Forces could seal off both shores of the river's full length from all possible witnesses for any length of time - even the relatively brief time needed for the boat and her portentous escort to pass by. Besides, almost every single American, foreign and even civilian earth-watching satellite (and there are hundreds) had already been directed over this small patch of globe. 

"Our sources say that the 'Callanan' is still being referred to as 'Navy One' on military radio frequencies. This confirms that the President is still aboard, because it's only when he is present on a naval vessel that the vessel uses that call sign. Now obviously the President should have been evacuated from the submarine at the first sign of trouble. The fact that he was _not_ evacuated implies that he was physically unable to leave. Speculation is still high at this time as to the possible reasons for failing to get him to safety. We are expecting a statement from the White House any moment now, presumably to address this matter of national and _inter_ national importance. It is to be hoped they will confirm that President Bartlet is indeed alive and in a position to be rescued..." 

Imagine how people felt, wherever they were, sitting or standing around TV sets, hearing this unbelievable news. One and all they stared at the screen, observing helplessly - and with a strange kind of morbid fascination - as this burning sub was towed past each vantagepoint, towards an unknown fate, with the most powerful man in the world trapped inside its hull. And _no one knew_ if they could get him out in time, or at all... or if he was already dead. It bore a horrific resemblance to watching the gun carriage go by with his casket. 

"We've learned that several tender vessels have been sent into the area to secure all waters from the northern tip of Long Island to past Block Island. The ferries that run out of New London and Block Island have already been sent back to port or directed to heave to until the 'Callanan' has passed. Of course, no ship can outrun a nuclear blast, but it's likely the Armed Forces and the White House do not want tourists gawking at this grim flotilla as though it were a tourist attraction. Meanwhile, activity from Otis Air Force Base in Cape Cod, Massachusetts indicates that some other kind of military operation is being organized, no doubt with the intention of breaking into the submarine and rescuing the President and his party as soon as humanly possible..." 

At last the mainland fell behind. The final, lingering shots - both video and still - grew steadily more poignant as they strained after the shrinking image of this Death Row inmate walking its Last Mile, flanked by its guard and executioner. It was a sight that had every viewer worldwide riveted to their sets. Nobody could watch it and fail to be moved. Or terrified. 

"The 'Callanan' is now entering Block Island Sound. This station has already been in touch with certain naval consultants, and they've explained to us why the military is taking the precautions it has, and what will happen if the reactor were to detonate. Such an explosion would spread a radioactive cloud over the entire coastline. Ocean currents, wind currents... the very earth itself would carry the fallout for years, perhaps even decades to come. Apparently, the only way to prevent this global catastrophe is to tow the submarine out into deep water - and sink it..." 

People always charged in and out of the Communications bullpen on a workday; it had to be one of the three most chaotic areas in the White House. When these people stopped what they were doing and crowded around the bank of TVs instead, you knew it was major news. 

Of course, it would be major news as well for certain people besides those here... 

"Sam, calm down!" Will's voice carried beyond his office, the door of which he had chosen not to close. He was pacing nonstop, an endless circuit from the laptop on his desk to the TVs on his wall to the corridor outside and back. Fortunately, he'd been contacted on his cellular phone, not the ground line, which made this pacing possible. 

Most of the support staff knew at once to whom he had to be talking, and traded knowing glances. A few edged closer, hoping to overhear. 

"Don't - no - you're not - Sam, _listen_ to me. There is _no way_ you can get here in time. Don't even try. This whole thing will be over in another few hours, one way or another. That's the hard truth of it." 

Judging from Will's next exhalation, Congressman Seaborn of Orange County was not convinced. But then, he had his own history in this building with this administration... a history more than sufficient to blind him to reason. 

The new Deputy Communications Director rubbed his forehead wearily. "Almost four years. I know. Plus the campaign before that. And I've only had a few months. Even so, I've grown pretty fond of these people myself. And even if I hadn't, I'd still be working my tail off trying to help. But there's just nothing more we can do here right now!" 

Telecommunications has made it possible to follow news instantaneously anywhere in the world. However, when you know the people directly involved in that news, it's much worse to be so far removed from the action. Granted, the White House was not exactly next door to Groton dock, but it beat California hands down. Besides, when there's a personal connection, _any_ distance only fuels the helplessness and the panic. 

Will stepped out again to survey the hall, but apparently he didn't see whatever he'd hoped to see. "Josh must still be in the Situation Room. Yes, I said the Sit Room. Don't sound so astonished. And he's doing great, by the way." 

It seemed almost farcical that Will could so easily hear the voice of the man he'd replaced, even though on the other side of the world's second largest continent, and yet he couldn't reach his supervisor from a mere three hundred miles away. 

"Look, we really don't have much more besides what's already out there. C.J.'s stepping up in another minute. We're reporting the facts as fast as we get them." 

The next blast to his ear made him wince, both from discomfort and from guilt. There is an added problem with trying to mislead friends: they know you too well to be easily fooled. That knowledge also includes details about your past, and your own areas of expertise. 

"Okay. You're right." Will lowered his voice. "Are you sitting down?" He retreated inside and reached for his door to swing it shut. "Here it is, straight." 

Donna rushed down the corridor, past that closed door and into the bullpen, scribbling on a pad as she went. Folks got out of her way at once. Neither she nor Josh had received a formal promotion, but both were trying to perform several very difficult tasks at once - not the least of those tasks being the running of the West Wing. 

As a result, she did not spare even a glance towards the news reports. Whatever news she really needed, she would get from her boss... who got it from the source. 

"Donna!" Speaking of whom, here he came, moving at an ever more frenetic pace. The agent in his wake had to really hustle to keep up. 

Donna turned to him; so did everyone else. He tossed off a fast wave of denial to the room at large. "No, I don't have anything new. _Nada._ " 

He had something for his assistant, though - a query. "C.J. started her briefing yet?" 

"Any second now. What's happening downstairs?" 

Josh exhaled, coming as close to relaxing as he ever would today. "Not a whole lot. They're still... waiting." 

Donna blinked in amazement. " _Still_ waiting?" 

At that moment, every news anchor on every station on every TV in this room interrupted their coverage to announce basically the same thing: "We now go live to the White House, and Press Secretary C.J. Cregg." 

Just like that, every station on every TV showed the same image at the same time. C.J. took her place behind the podium, in a room only a few yards from this very spot. She ignored the blinding flashes and the shouting voices, and raised her hand imperiously for quiet. "Let me get my statement out before you bombard me. I'll tell you what I know." 

Josh and Donna were among the select few who already knew what information would be forthcoming. Donna judged their conversation to be more valuable and picked up where she'd left off. "All of the Joint Chiefs are already here; who's left?" 

Then suddenly she answered her own question. "Hoynes?" 

"Yeah, he's one." Even as he spoke, Josh noticed some movement behind her. His tone dropped, both for privacy and in respect. "Here's the other." 

A sudden stillness swept through this entire office area as Abigail Bartlet marched in. 

She looked immaculate, like always; her daffodil yellow skirt-suit seemed to gather the surrounding light to her, and her rich brown hair swung free in a gentle wave. She carried herself with dignity, like always; rarely were people not gawking at her and cameras not trained on her. She was _always_ the last person to lose control... and the last person you'd ever want to cross. At times she was more intimidating than the President could ever hope to be. 

For once she was struggling to remain calm, seized by a horror that only a spouse and a parent could truly grasp. Her regal posture must have ached under the relentless pressure of uncertainty. No one here could deny the strain in her eyes, the tension on her face. No one here had ever seen that degree of strain or tension in this remarkable woman before today. 

Of those present, Josh knew her best. Even if he didn't, he bore the responsibility. He tried to act like he wanted to greet her properly, not like he wanted to bar her path. She had her own security detail, as usual - and from her stiff, quick steps she had her own destination in mind as well. Or, maybe she too had been infected with the inability to just wait. 

The Acting Chief of Staff did his best to intercept gently. "Mrs. Bartlet." 

No one could say that the First Lady understood duty and necessity any less than did her husband. She adjusted her course and came over, stopping in front of her hailer. Shorter than anyone else around, she still dominated the room - through her identity, her personality... and the emotional distress they all knew she was under. 

"Josh." The defensive public mask, the surgeon's professional control, waged open warfare against the heart of a wife and the soul of a mother. Her voice stayed level, somehow. "I'm told that you have all the answers." 

He almost grinned; it was a purely automatic reaction. "I've always thought so." Then he dropped his vision and shifted his weight in discomfort. In helplessness. "They're... doing everything they..." 

Abbey's expression didn't shift an inch, but something in her eyes - some new element of agony - forced him to rearrange his words yet again. 

"We're all here for you." 

When had this bustling office area ever been so still? 

"I know." She drew herself in a bit more tightly, and swept her gaze over the other staffers gathered around. No one took their attention from her, even to check the news. Together, they stood by their interim leader's declaration. 

In eloquent silence, she expressed her gratitude. 

Donna blinked again - this time, fighting back tears. 

Josh inclined his head formally to the President's wife. "I'll take you downstairs." 

"Yes, do." Clearly Abbey couldn't get there soon enough. 

"C.J., please answer one question up front. Can you at least confirm that the President is still alive?" 

Everyone in Communications had managed to tune out the briefing for the past few moments - but no longer. Everyone froze in unison. 

Abbey stopped so fast she quivered, suddenly conscious of nothing else. Then, slowly, reluctantly, torturously, she revolved towards the bank of TVs. 

The White House Press Secretary had frozen as well. And right then, _everyone_ knew what she was going to say. 

THE SITUATION ROOM / U.S.S. HOUSTON 

"I can't believe it took me this long to get here. Rush hour or _no_ rush hour, they should've had me here before _this!_ " 

"Yes, ma'am." Josh kept pace as they hurried through hallways, around corners and down stairs. Their path cleared almost magically before them. 

"I _really_ can't believe this is happening. Of all the accidents possible, on all the ships in the fleet, it would have to be a nuclear spill on the one vessel my husband chooses to tour. The man is a magnet for trouble." 

"Yes, _ma'am._ " Josh did not hesitate to agree, and not just because he felt obliged to let the First Lady talk out her anxiety. 

"And now that I _am_ here, what on earth can I do? _Nothing._ " A tremor worked its way into Abbey's voice. " _Nothing at all_ \- except stand around and watch the whole nightmare unfold." 

Josh sighed. "We're there too, ma'am. If there's anything we can do -" 

If she heard one word he said, she gave no indication of it. "I sent Ellie on this trip. I asked her to take my place." Now the guilt poured forth. Few people are better at self-recrimination than parents. 

Josh held his peace this time. No comment from him could possibly help. 

As though she couldn't bear the absence of sound, as though she had to fill that accusing vacuum with some kind of noise, Abbey snatched at a new topic. "When will Zoey get here?" 

"She's another twenty minutes or so away." 

"Rush hour." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

They trotted swiftly down the last staircase. Only those famous stiletto heels kept Abbey from running. She couldn't afford to break a leg now. 

Secret Service agents trailed behind, six in all. Josh threw a glance back at them, and saw his chance to lighten the mood at least a bit. "I gotta say, ma'am, I've recently developed a new perspective for the security issues your whole Family goes through all the time." 

She didn't spare a glance for him or them. "You'll be so glad to get _rid_ of that security, it won't be funny." There was absolutely no doubt in her tone. 

They turned the last corner and braked at the closed door before them, guarded by a matched pair of alert and armed Marines. Normally, even the ultra-critical Situation Room had only one such guard. However, when security tensions were on the extreme "up," the watch automatically doubled in sensitive locations - and this place sure qualified. 

"Dr. McNally said -" Josh began, by way of asking for admission. 

Abbey cut to the chase, her words iron-hard. "Would you announce us, please." 

The uniformed doorkeepers didn't shift expression, as though nothing could surprise or rattle them. In silence, one reached for his two-way radio. 

"I should get my own hand-print registered," Josh muttered, fidgeting at even this slight delay. "Save every second we can. But then, I wouldn't want Leo to think I was trying to oust him." 

Abbey couldn't prevent herself from fidgeting as well. "I've never been here before. Normally, I'd never be allowed." 

"Me neither. I got dumped into the deep end." 

"You and me both." Her features set like concrete. "Let's paddle like hell." 

Before Josh could joke in return or even just agree, the Marines received confirmation and waved them through. 

The inner set of double doors was opened from the inside by unseen hands. 

No precise "Ten-hut!" preceded them, yet every person in the dimly-lit room beyond at once rose to their feet for the First Lady - exactly as they would have risen for the President. 

Abbey entered slowly, yet without hesitation, taking in everything. The Situation Room was fully staffed, the projector fully equipped, the information fully assembled. 

But what good could all this military muscle do now? Nowhere near enough. 

"Mrs. Bartlet." The usual tough-as-nails National Security Advisor showed surprising gentleness in her brief greeting. Still, neither she nor any of the Joint Chiefs offered verbal best wishes or encouragement. These were all highly realistic people. Platitudes wouldn't help, and false optimism would only waste time. 

Two chairs remained unoccupied: the one at the table's head, with the Great Seal adorning the wall right behind it, and the one to its immediate left. Abbey needed no guidance here; she moved to stand behind her husband's seat. Even though she had no constitutional authority in the least and could not legally give a single order or even demand information, she deliberately assumed the role of executive stand-in. It carried its own symbolism, and broadcast in big bold print exactly what was at stake. 

No one objected. Josh stayed protectively close to her, much as Leo would have flanked his Commander-in-Chief. 

She took one more extended heartbeat to survey every face around this table, as well as the technical schematics on the opposite wall and the thick miasma of tension. Her yellow attire seemed shockingly cheerful against the subdued lighting and the dark uniforms on all sides. 

"Give me the facts." Her voice echoed in the strained quiet. "All of them." 

Fitzwallace spoke first, loud and clear over the phone line. "Mrs. Bartlet, I'm currently on the escorting cruiser 'Houston'. We're almost five miles past the mouth of the Thames. The Navy SEAL response team Hotspur has arrived and is trying to enter through the forward hatch of the submarine even as we speak. It's the only practical access. But both the fire and the water are in their way." 

Nancy supplied more detail. "This is a schematic of the 'Callanan'." She indicated various points of interest on the projected blueprints. "She has two levels. The conning tower is slightly aft of center. The reactor is just aft of the tower, on the lower level. The rest of the stern is taken up mostly by the engine compartment. The Conn, where the captain commands the boat, is right under the tower and on the upper level. Missile control is forward of the tower, almost dead center, and occupies both levels. That's where they store the missiles, and all back-up command equipment as well." The relevant areas obligingly lit up as she named them. 

"Any survivors have to be in either the Conn or the missile compartment," Fitz elaborated, trying to sound positive. "They're the only two places that offer decent safety. The President's party was being guided by the captain of a prize crew in nuclear warships. He'd know exactly what to do in a situation like this." 

Abbey nodded, once, to indicate that she was following along. Her instructors did not want to sound patronizing, but she had next to no naval experience. 

"There are far fewer ways to enter a submarine than a surface ship, for obvious reasons," Nancy went on. "First choice is down the tower. Unfortunately that's not an option - not with the radiation still flooding the entire stern and moving forward and up. This is not just a case of getting rescuers in; we have to get the rescuees _out._ Alive. Walking through radiation-filled corridors is not the way to do it. 

"There are other hatches designed for emergency evacuation, but they're all kept sealed against the ocean pressures on deep dives... and they're also designed to resist any attempts by enemy forces at breaking in. The only hatch that's open, the one the presidential party used to board, is too narrow to admit these specialists and all their gear. This leaves us with the forward cargo hatch. Normally it's used to load torpedoes into the forward torpedo bay. The explosion has loosened that hatch. That's what they're trying to force now. The plan is for the SEALs to go in, with air tanks for everyone, and then lead them back out the same way. The forward door to missile control is close enough to the bow that it can be done quickly. When they reach the aperture, the tugs will stop the tow and pick them up. Once everyone is clear, the tow can continue." 

"If Hotspur is going to get anywhere with that objective," Fitz added, "they'll have to fight the fire first." The schematic produced a shimmering orange patch in the forward-most section to indicate where the fire raged. "Also, that explosion hulled the boat right at the waterline. Towing will increase the intake of water. The end result is, she's being none too cooperative with the SEALs or the tugs. Still, it's generally easier to tow a sub than a surface ship; they're smaller and more streamlined. Overall, the tow is making good progress." 

"I guess that should be construed as good news," Abbey almost whispered. Good _and_ bad: every minute carried the "Callanan" and its captive passengers further from homes and citizens... indeed, further both physically and spiritually from these very people gathered here in concerned council... and closer to a deadly reckoning. 

Then she lifted her head an extra notch, assuming an almost military stance herself. "And what precisely do you propose to do to the submarine when you get it where you want it?" 

For a long moment, no one dared reply. 

She spared them the dreadful pronouncement. "I know you have to sink it." Her words contained the hint of a whip-crack. "I know _why_ you have to sink it." She had engaged full doctor's mode, locked down and emotionless, focusing on just the bald information, finding some refuge in the clinical approach. "Tell me how." 

Fitz sighed heavily. He seemed to be doing that a lot today. "I've ordered the 'Houston's' captain to arm her weapons." 

He paused. No one moved. The only sign Abbey gave was a convulsive tightening of her fingers on the back of the President's chair. 

"But around an unstable reactor, that's too explosive and dirty for my liking. The safest way to scuttle the boat with a minimal risk of explosion is just to open the terminal sea cogs. All ships have them. Flood the ballast and trim tanks, and the sub goes down fast." 

"However," Nancy inserted, "those controls are manual, which means someone has to be inside the boat to do it. Which means that at least one member of Hotspur would have to be _very_ dedicated." 

"I won't ask for that kind of sacrifice if I have any other option," the Chairman stated firmly. "We're still pursuing other ideas while we have at least a bit of time." 

"No," Abbey agreed, quietly yet steadily. "The President would refuse to countenance a plan that increased his chances of survival, yet reduced the chances of others." 

Josh winced. He would have fully endorsed her take on their leader's selfless views, but he of all the people in this room knew what it cost her to say that. Her horror didn't stop at the hideous risk to her husband: it also encompassed the welfare of her middle daughter... as well as a very old friend of the Bartlet family, a trusted and liked senior staffer, and the personable young man who'd fallen completely for her _youngest_ daughter. After all that came a physician's natural altruism for _every_ life. 

Perhaps some of these people noticed her usage of "the President," rather than the more natural "my husband." Deliberate or unconscious, she needed to distance herself from what was happening - what might already have happened. 

"Ma'am..." Fitz spoke very slowly, choosing his words with great care. "I don't suppose this will be much consolation to you, but should it become necessary to sink the boat before the rescue is complete... I'll give that order myself." 

Silence reigned in this critical chamber. Now _that_ was self-sacrifice. The Chairman had accepted the bleak and remorseful duty to take the ultimate burden of execution upon his own shoulders. He felt that he owed his Commander-in-Chief no less. 

It was the First Lady who broke the spell. "I appreciate your offer, Admiral. Very much." She didn't go so far as to say that she knew her husband, daughter and friends would be in the best of hands, but the implication was there. 

Her next words could barely be heard... yet they revealed not the slightest indecision. "I wish I could be there." 

There - on the cruiser. On the ocean. Only a few hundred yards from a crippled submarine with a critical reactor. In direct view of the vessel that might well be taking two members of her family to their deaths. 

This moment presented another duality. Like many a wife or mother before her from time immemorial, Abbey was standing on the widow's walk, staring out to sea and wondering if those she loved would ever return. 

Nancy recovered first, in no little surprise. "If that thing goes, it'll spew a radioactive cloud over a hundred square miles in the first minute. It's a terrible thought that our President might be caught in it; we sure wouldn't want our First Lady there as well -" 

"And if the President dies?" Abbey's interruption was sharp and unyielding. Here and now, she of all people voiced the one thing that no one else had dared articulate aloud before this moment. She forced them all to face the appalling reality - herself included. "What will it matter? What will I be then? Constitutionally, I will cease to exist." 

She glared at the NSA, right down the full length of that polished table, daring 

her to deny this bitter truth. Several of the Joint Chiefs exchanged uneasy glances, but none spoke up. Even though marriages of public figures are very often suspected of being mostly for show (and sometimes with reason), no one who knew the Bartlets even casually could contest their soul-deep devotion for each other. Not one person here doubted that Abbey meant exactly what she said. She wanted to be _there,_ on the front line, regardless of the risk, to await either her husband's rescue or else his burial at sea. Her nature and her love demanded that she be present either way: to hug him... or to say goodbye. 

Maybe she couldn't save him; maybe she couldn't even be with him. But she could not bear to remain here, useless, uninformed, _safe_... and be brought the news afterwards. 

All of these aspects applied, with even greater intensity, to her feelings for Eleanor. 

Everyone at this table had a family of his or her own; they understood those emotions. After all, how many of these military souls had sensed the same thing when they themselves went off into harm's way, leaving behind _their_ loved ones? 

"I'll send a helicopter." 

Whether or not he intended it thus, Fitz stunned the entire room with one short sentence. 

"What?" No matter how much she stood by her desire, no matter how much she hoped that the Chairman meant what she thought he meant, Abbey could not just automatically believe it. 

From the astonishment on Nancy's face, the First Lady wasn't alone in that. 

The Admiral left no further ambiguity in anyone's mind. "Yes, ma'am, I'm going to send you a Marine chopper from Andrews AFB at once. They'll fly you straight out to the 'Houston'. That way you'll bypass everyone, especially the press. Unless something new happens, you'll get here in time." 

The thought of "something new" occurring made everyone flinch. 

Then Fitz proceeded to demonstrate one reason why he got along with his Chief Executive so well. "I just can't promise to hold up the _rescue_ that long, if we run ahead of schedule." 

Several of the military brass permitted a dry chuckle. So did Josh. 

Even Nancy smiled. "We _might_ forgive you for that." 

"I'd appreciate it. See you shortly, Mrs. Bartlet." 

Military men in general, and Navy men in particular, can be very sentimental. The Chairman had a big enough heart, as well as more than enough stars, to extend his best effort to ease the suffering of a mother and a wife. Yet this invitation went beyond pure sentiment. It acknowledged that the First Lady had the right to make her own decision, to risk the danger if she so chose. Protocol had nothing to do with it. 

Abbey still stood very straight at the head of the table. She still radiated a nerve-wracking fear for her loved ones, and a courage that would do any of these battle veterans proud. And yet, something had changed. It might not have been hope, exactly... but some element of the horror had lessened a bit. Because she knew, now more than ever, that she did not stand alone in her anguish. 

"Thank you." 


	8. All Things Being Equal 8

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

NAVY ONE 

"Watch it, Charlie! No sudden moves. Okay, are you balanced? Remember, keep your weight on opposite sides of the circle. If you need to shift, let us know first. We'll let you know if _we_ need to shift." 

"Got it. Camera?" 

The personal aide to the President reached down very carefully and accepted the broken back plate of DeSoto's prized equipment. Even Ron, the tallest person here, had to stretch upward to meet his hand. Charlie straightened just as carefully, one hand groping for a finger hold on the steel mesh of the ceiling panel - now mere inches above his head. Once he felt secure, he applied the thin edge of the metal plate to the screws locking the panel in place. 

"How's everyone _else_ doing?" Ron stepped back for an overall view. 

The reason Charlie could now reach the ceiling at all was because he stood precariously upon the support of others. Four men huddled in a tight ring, legs braced, arms around each other's shoulders, heads almost touching. At this moment the body man's sock feet dug into the cervical spines of Captain Byron and Agent Donnie. 

"Never better." Jed Bartlet grinned across the bare inches of space between him and his Chief of Staff. Being naturally the oldest and least fit of the four, they were strategically alternated between their two companions. "So, how many yards do we need for a first down?" 

Ron bypassed his protectee's persistent humor. "If anyone needs a break, say so. At once," he emphasized. "No showing off; we can't afford a collapse." 

"Was that last line aimed at me?" the President wondered aloud in affected innocence. He steadied himself as Donnie leaned into him a bit more heavily to accommodate the slight teetering Charlie couldn't prevent. 

"Hey, you're the one who opted for demotion." Leo did not grin back, beads of moisture breaking out on his face. 

"Couldn't let you have _all_ the fun. It's a rare treat to pull my own weight." 

"Screw number four is out," Charlie announced, working his improvised screwdriver as fast as he could. 

"Hold up a sec. Can you pause for a moment and switch shoulders?" Hyde inquired, sweating as well. 

"Sure; hang on." Charlie tucked the camera back into one pocket, then slipped the fingers of both hands through the mesh and found a grip. He couldn't lift his weight this way, but he could stabilize himself at least a little. "Okay, switching." Very cautiously, he moved his feet to the other side of Hyde's and Donnie's heads. Bartlet and Leo continued to shore them up, breathing harder from the increased exertion. 

As Charlie re-centered himself and resumed his task, Eleanor paced around the whole circle, observing it all. She fairly brimmed with anxiety. 

Unlike her, three men sat placidly against the nearby wall, resting while they could. Toby rubbed his own shoulders, sore from his earlier shift as the base of the human pyramid. DeSoto and Lung kept him company. Ron, who would have rounded out that _partie carré,_ did not sit down himself; he had to be right on hand, should anything go wrong. 

"Come on, Donnie, you're making us look bad," the President teased. "At least try to _act_ like this is work for you as well." 

Leo answered first. "Sir, I strongly advise you to lay off the jokes. Laughter now will only compromise our strength." 

"Spoilsport." 

"Screw number five," Charlie's voice filtered down, punctuated by a painful grunt. Contrary to appearances, he didn't have it all easy himself; his arms must have been aching fiercely from the constant upward strain. 

Ron detected that. "Charlie, get down. You need a rest, too." 

"I'm fine - yeah, you're right." The body man swallowed his impulse to tough it out; there was too much riding on this joint effort for one of them to risk a mistake through exhaustion. He tossed down the camera back, then stretched sideways until he could just grasp a study horizontal pipe with both hands. That adjustment in balance had Hyde grinding his teeth against the intensified pressure on his end of the ring. "Ready." 

The four men underneath him at once relaxed and drew apart, sighing with relief, leaving Charlie to hang from the ceiling. When the way was clear beneath, he let go and dropped lightly to the floor. 

"That leaves three." He handed over the screws he'd removed during this round. 

"No, just two." Ron studied the panel carefully. "We'll leave the last one in, and pivot the whole panel sideways until you can reach the tools resting on it." 

"Will one screw hold it safely?" Leo inquired. "How heavy are these sheets?" 

Everyone looked at Hyde, who looked at Lung, who could only shrug. The Commander mimicked that motion with his eyebrows. "No idea. I have a degree in nuclear engineering; every qualified sub commander needs that. But I don't have the nuts-and-bolts knowledge of a master specialist. Neither does the Lieutenant here. That's what our Chief Engineer is for." 

Ron just nodded. "We'll decide when the seventh screw is loose. Charlie, you'll have to judge. We don't want those objects falling free." 

"Right." Released from duty for the moment, the personal aide went over to sit down wearily beside Toby. The Communications Director watched with uncommon friendship as the younger man shook out his protesting arm muscles. 

Leo moved a step closer to Bartlet, lowering his head and his voice together. "Everything all right?" 

The President did not modulate his reply in kind. "I could ask you the same thing." It was hard to tell which of these two men looked more tired. It was even harder to tell which of them looked more determined. 

Ellie sidled up as well. "Don't strain your back," she whispered. Perhaps even Leo didn't hear that one. 

Her father exhaled in fresh annoyance. "I said I wanted to pull my own weight. Rest assured, I shall abide by the same rules as the rest of you." He moved away, stretching his arms stiffly, _not_ stretching his back... although whether he felt no actual discomfort there or whether he refused to admit that he _did,_ no one knew. Incidentally, this also put some extra distance between him and his nursemaids - as well as the forward hatch, and the fire beyond. 

Leo watched him for another few seconds, then swung back to business; that was what he did best. He aimed his next question at the boat's captain. "What can you tell us about this special silo we're expending so much energy to break into?" 

Hyde had also chosen a seat on the floor, no longer in the prime of his own youth and glad to relax. "Well, it's thirty-five feet tall. These things were originally built for the Polaris or Titan MIRV/ICBM nuclear missiles, but they've been redesigned to handle the smaller Harpoon cruise/tactical strike missiles. The ASDS version is modified in a different way: as an escape chamber for divers. It means 'Advanced Seal Delivery System.' Still, the original silo structure remains the same. There are two hatches at the top. The inner hatch is for flooding the tube prior to launch, so that the silo is evenly pressurized. The heavy outer hatch is _only_ opened before a launch - or diver egress. Both hatches are controlled from that box." He pointed towards the small metal cabinet they still needed a _real_ tool to force open. 

"That box had better deliver," Toby muttered, loud enough for all to hear. 

"And that silo had better be the escape route you say it is," Leo added. He was in a poor position to make threats, yet it came across in his tone. Another letdown now, after all the time and effort invested in this operation, would _not_ be welcome. 

"Can't guarantee anything," the Commander admitted frankly, taking no offense at this automatic impulse to blame the skipper for the vessel's failing. He kept things factual. "The power spike, or the fire, must have fried the COM system as well. I'm not getting any response on the state of the silo or of the boat itself; I checked the board earlier. Let's all pray that the deck section where the silo opens is not yet under water." 

That conjured up a delightfully dramatic mental picture. If the silo hatch opened _under_ the surface, and the bottom access hatch was also open, the resulting in-rush of water would send everyone tumbling. Then they _would_ have to worry about drowning. 

"And what, pray tell, is the likelihood of _that?_ " Toby wondered sardonically, resting his forearms on his bent knees as though he had all the leisure in the world. 

Hyde managed to appear reasonably at ease himself. "Well, judging from the cant of the deck alone, the bow shouldn't be completely awash just yet. But there's no way to be sure. We're not only trapped - we're deaf and mute and blind as well." 

"Well, you picked me right up there." 

"All the more incentive to dig ourselves out!" Bartlet stepped back into the spotlight, rubbing his palms together. "Who's up for another scrimmage?" 

Did he seem just a bit too eager? After that blind, deaf and mute statement, claustrophobia would quite likely be buzzing even more. 

"Don't start quoting Notre Dame statistics now," Leo all but pleaded. 

Before his boss could rise to the bait, Ellie stepped forward. " _I'm_ up for it." 

Everyone stopped short. 

"You?" her father said first. 

"Yes, me. Charlie did a double shift; he deserves a decent rest. I bet I'm lighter than he is, anyway." She challenged every man here with a look. 

"Ellie..." That address contained a parental warning. 

"What? You want to be treated as an equal. Why shouldn't I?" She folded her arms, the epitome of stubborn resolve. "No favoritism. No _sexism,_ either! All hands are needed - that was your argument. Each of us here has to contribute, the best way we can." 

Strictly speaking, it wasn't sexism. It was paternalism - a far more powerful force. 

The President did not reply for the longest time. She shared the Bartlet courage; no one could doubt that. She had also raised a point of undeniable logic. Still, she was his child, his responsibility. He would always see her like that, and her sisters as well, regardless of their age. If she got hurt - 

Ellie started to waver. If he refused, the others wouldn't dream of countermanding him. Family overruled politics any day of the year. 

With a sigh, he gave in. "Your mother will never forgive me for this." 

Even Toby smiled at that one. 

Ellie restrained her relief admirably. She had earned her chance to work _with_ her father, to be a useful part of the whole. "You abdicated earlier, remember? You have an excuse." 

"Yeah, yeah. Let's get this over with." Bartlet's previous enthusiasm had fled. Risk to himself never bothered him much. Risk to his loved ones always drove him to distraction. He eyed her very seriously. "Don't even _think_ about falling." 

The pyramid's first shift reassembled, planting its base securely: Toby across from Lung, DeSoto facing Ron. Ellie slipped off her shoes; then Donnie and Hyde, the two strongest remaining, boosted her onto the second tier. 

Her father held himself very still, watching her every move. 

"Remember what Ron said: leave the last screw." 

"Yes, Dad." She took the proffered camera back and chose her point of attack, wobbling a bit until she achieved a sense of balance. 

Apprehension rising, the President finally had to look away. 

Leo had selected a spot to sit down and lean back. For once, he made no attempt to rise as his leader approached. "You look a little green around the gills. Didn't your girls ever climb trees back home?" 

Hands pocketed, Bartlet did his best to act nonchalant. Without much success. "Sure - and I was no less terrified then. Plus, if she pulls it off, _she'll_ get all the credit." 

He lowered himself beside his old friend, not looking directly at him. All amusement had vanished. "Oh, my ego can handle the thought of her getting me out of this." A lurking dread, a choking terror that banished all other fears, became more visible in his eyes. "Anything's better than me _not_ getting _her_ out of this." 

"Hey." Leo administered a light elbow jab. "This is a team effort, and it's working. We're _all_ getting out. You put us on the right track, remember?" 

"There's screw number six," Ellie called right then, with an unmistakable note of triumph. 

Her father rolled his eyes. 

Leo just smiled. "I think you've been vindicated. What a tale this'll make to -" 

"Hang on." Charlie had risen to observe Ellie's progress. Now he turned as though on a pivot, brow furrowed. "Is the floor moving a bit more?" 

Instantly he had everyone's attention. Even Ellie paused in her task. 

Then everyone who could turn, turned to Hyde. 

From his seat against a bulkhead he planted both hands flat on the deck and closed his eyes, feeling with all of his senses. 

"You're right. I don't think our speed has changed; they would've been towing us as fast as possible from the start. I'd say it's ocean swells." The Commander looked up somberly. "We're out of the river, and heading into open water." 

"We're running out of time." Somehow, Leo's low volume made that statement even more ominous. 

"Not just yet. There are still probably a hundred miles between us and the _really_ deep water. Either we'll be out through the silo by then..." 

Leo nodded shortly. "Or the reactor will let go first." 

Silence fell. The human tower did not so much as twitch. 

When in distress, joke. Bartlet did his best to dissipate the sudden gloom. He rose and wandered over. "April in the North Atlantic. Does this sound like a certain blockbuster movie to anyone else?" 

Ellie shut _her_ eyes for a moment in a look of strained patience, then refocused on the panel above her. 

Her father continued merrily along before someone could forestall him. "You know, not many people realize this, even after all the hype. But almost everyone who got off the 'Titanic' only to die in the ocean did not drown. They froze to death. Which, I've read, is supposed to be a very peaceful sensation -" 

Arms locked and head bowed, Toby emitted something alarmingly close to a growl. "Sir, did you really mean it earlier when you said you wanted to be treated equally?" 

The President stood on his dignity. "Of course I meant it." 

"Then _shut up!_ " 

Said dignity suffered a very abrupt relapse. More than one jaw dropped in astonishment. 

From inside his huddle Toby couldn't see this reaction, and if he could it would only have egged him on. "Just this once, _please!_ You're not raising our morale!" 

The next silence stretched as taut as piano wire. 

What broke it was the suppressed laughter that creased Bartlet's face and shook his shoulders; laughter aimed at himself. His witnesses promptly relaxed. 

Fortunately, Ellie had not been among those distracted. Right then she let out a cry of victory. "Got it! Lucky number seven!" 

Ron reassumed command, even though he couldn't see what she was doing. "Okay. Now - carefully - swing the panel sideways. See if that last screw is enough to support it. Don't put any of your own weight on it, and let us know if it starts to break." 

" _Very_ carefully," Bartlet endorsed from the ground, his joviality gone in a trice. 

"I understand. It feels pretty solid." Inch by inch, Ellie eased the panel to the right. It must have measured three and a half feet square, but seemed of fairly light construction. The remaining fastener creaked in mild protest. 

"Can you reach any of the tools? _Don't_ unbalance yourself!" 

"Relax, Dad; you're making _me_ nervous. Here." She picked up the first item her fingers encountered - a hunk of metal with very little identifiable shape. "Watch out; they're sharp on the edges." Making sure he was ready, she tossed it down to him. The next she tossed to Leo, the third to Charlie, and the fourth to Hyde. 

"Is that everything?" the Commander asked. "We don't want to risk any falling objects." 

"I can't see any more from here..." 

"All right, come on down." That order came from her father, naturally. In fact he made a point of being right there when she dropped to the deck. 

Straightening, Ellie dusted her palms efficiently and gave him a reserved smile. "Mission accomplished." 

"And accomplished very well. You made a nice haul." He said that like she'd robbed a bank. The twinkle in his eye said even more. She blushed with pride. 

"Yes, Miss Bartlet, you did." The boat's skipper hefted a length of tempered steel from the collection she had retrieved. "These are scraps, not really tools, but for our purposes they'll do just fine!" 

He strode over to the control box on the nearer Special Ops silo, positioned the tip of the uneven steel bar against the cabinet's door lock, and applied pressure at a specific angle. 

The cover popped open. With laughable ease, considering the difficulty they'd had getting hold of that pry in the first place. Hyde passed his impromptu crowbar to Lung - who was, of course, standing right beside him like a good executive officer should - and started punching buttons in the electronic keypad now revealed. 

"You're opening the upper hatches first, right?" Ron clarified. 

"Oh, yes. No way am I opening the access hatch down here until we know it's safe to do so. The inner top hatch comes first. If the silo mouth is under water, we'll hear it flood for sure." 

Everyone listened hard as he hit the final button. It beeped, turning green. 

They heard... nothing else. 

"Nothing," Ron confirmed. 

"That means no water?" Leo guessed first, eagerly. 

Their captain was smiling. "That it does. We're still high and dry." 

"All right!" DeSoto couldn't prevent a brief cheer. He even slapped Charlie on the arm. The personal aide didn't mind at all, grinning just as broadly. 

"Now for the outer hatch. Once I get a green light on it, we can open the access hatch and start climbing." Hyde selected another button and depressed it with a similar _beep._

Again, they waited. Again, they heard nothing. 

"Sounds like a go to me!" Toby sounded more enthused than anyone had heard him in a long while. 

"No." Hyde slumped in his tracks. "Not this time." He was staring at a _red_ light. 

Pause. 

The President settled back on his heels, awaiting more data. "Explain." 

"That outer hatch is the heavy one, the pressurized one. It doesn't just swing open on a hinge; it has to break a very strong seal. That doesn't happen soundlessly. We should've heard something this time - a clunk, a muffled bang. _Something._ " 

Hyde pressed the keypad again... with the same result. Nothing. "Still a red indicator. Something must be wrong." 

Another pause, this one much longer. All of their expectations had been crushed in an instant. 

_Now_ what? 


	9. All Things Being Equal 9

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

THE WEST WING 

The news cycle continued its interminable loop, with no new data and almost no new coverage. The "Callanan" and her escort had reached the extreme tip of Long Island, where reporters had - of course - been sent once the towing route became known. However, these vessels were sensibly staying way out from land. Cameras on the shore transmitted what little they could: the sub getting smaller and smaller on the horizon, too far away for any detail. 

Everyone knew there'd be no further pictures. Whether the President could be rescued or not, that boat was going down. 

Abbey stood motionless before the TV in Josh's office, glued to these merciless images. She hugged herself tightly as though to fight off a chill. Otherwise, she appeared totally composed. She, too, had a responsibility to lead. Strength and calm in the very worst of adversity was expected by her international audience, no matter how any of _them_ might be free to react. 

That didn't change the glaring truth that she simply didn't know if her family members were still alive. She wasn't able to - she didn't _want_ to be able to - smother that tiny candle-flame of hope... but she didn't _know._ "Those who go down to the sea..." 

On the threshold behind her, probably unknown to her, Donna stood in silent vigil. Having been on the campaign trail herself, Josh's assistant could certainly claim to know Doctor Abigail Bartlet better than any of her support staff colleagues. Her natural alabaster skin looked even paler due to the waves of pain filling this room; her eyes brimmed with empathy. She made no sound and displayed no hint of impatience despite her urgent dashing about earlier. Whatever official business needed doing, it could wait for a few moments. Donna wanted to be right there, in case their First Lady needed anything at all. 

"This is the final view we'll ever have of the 'USS Callanan'," the news anchor asserted dramatically. "She's heading into the open sea. We can still track her by satellite, but the military has cleared the waters and the skies. Our only real source of information now is the White House itself." 

Ironic, that - since the White House had virtually nothing more to offer. Abbey raised a hand to her mouth, as though to stifle a groan of pure suffering. Donna unconsciously mirrored the gesture, although in her case it was closer to a sob. 

"Mrs. Bartlet." Josh appeared in the doorway, reluctant to enter his own office considering who currently occupied it. 

The President's wife turned. Donna did not; she kept her whole attention focused forward, as if afraid that she might miss either a critical nonverbal message or the first sign of collapse. Not that anyone really thought this iron woman _would_ collapse - but still, under pressure that's severe and unrelenting enough, anything will snap. 

Josh took a deep breath. "The chopper's here." 

Donna's face tightened a few more degrees. That helicopter would take the First Lady from the safety of the most secure domicile in the world, to one of the single most _dangerous_ spots in the world. 

Abbey nodded. At least she didn't have to stand around here any longer; that in itself brought her some modicum of comfort. She took one step - 

\- and stopped. "Where's Zoey?" 

Josh hesitated; he must've known this was coming. "She's still five minutes out." 

"I can't leave without her. I can't just go off and not take her with me." Abbey rotated back to the TV. "Five minutes. Good Lord, the things that can happen in five minutes..." She twisted completely around again. "I can't leave her behind. She deserves to be there, too!" Her self-control faltered. "Do you think we can wait that long?" 

Josh didn't move, unable to look away or to hide the facts. "I honestly don't know." 

"If I wait, and we don't get there in time..." Abbey raised a nervous hand to her hair, which appeared a bit less tidy than when she had arrived. "But if I don't wait, and she has to watch from here... alone..." Her hands wrung together, as though trying to squeeze the best answer out of thin air. "I've spoken to Liz. _She's_ safe, and _she_ has no hope of getting here. She doesn't like it, but she's accepted it..." 

Abbey swiveled yet again, nearly frantic, caught squarely upon the agonizing knife-edge of indecision. "I don't want Zoey in the danger zone, either - but that's her father, and her sister too! Will _she_ accept it? We should be together, no matter what happens. We should _all_ be together! _Reunited_ together -" 

"Ma'am?" For the first time, Donna spoke. Both spun on her. 

She kept her volume low, her voice gentle. Her stance, her tone, her vision all testified to her desire to lessen this horrid dilemma. "Zoey... is the one who's safe. Just like Elizabeth." 

That simple sentiment did wonders for boiling things down to their essence. The desperate glitter muted somewhat in Abbey's eyes. Slowly, she stilled; slowly, she breathed out. 

"You're right. She's safe - and she's among friends." 

Neither staffer moved, making sure that _she_ was sure. 

"Okay. I'll go now." 

Josh stepped back, inviting her to follow him to the waiting helicopter. She accepted... but on the way past, she paused to look up at Donna with a vital message. 

"When Zoey arrives... take care of her for me?" 

Donna swallowed with difficulty. "I will." That was a vow. 

Abbey placed her hand on the younger woman's arm for just a moment, a tight touch that spoke volumes. Then she exited swiftly, her mind made up at last. 

Four strides down the hall, she braked dead. Coming towards her from the opposite direction, surrounded by Secret Service agents, was the Vice President of the United States. 

John Hoynes spotted her at the exact same instant and stopped short as well. His detail scrambled to follow suit. A nerve-wracking stillness fell. 

For the next several motionless seconds there might as well have been no one else in sight. 

These two people traded a terribly tense look. From the pinch in Abbey's brow, she could hardly stand the sight of him. It wasn't personal, really; he did have his own principles. But right now he represented her single greatest fear. 

Then Hoynes resumed, advancing at a slower pace than his purposeful march of before. In fact he approached almost cautiously, as though afraid to make one wrong move. 

His handsome features reflected genuine concern and sheer compassion. "Mrs. Bartlet. We're going to move heaven and earth to bring the President _and_ your daughter home." 

Abbey stared at this tall, ambitious politician who stood to inherit the highest office in the land upon her husband's death. 

And she nodded, believing him. "Thank you, John." 

Josh, again standing protectively beside her, nodded as well. "I'll be right back, sir." 

The Vice President watched as they departed, heading for the Oval Office and the door onto the South Lawn where the First Lady's transportation awaited. 

When he revolved, he found every employee around watching _him._ The air quivered with a taut silence that did not entirely lack for hostility. 

Why was he here _now?_

Had Congress given up on recovering their President alive? 

Present as well were C.J. and Will, having arrived unnoticed in time to witness everything. They stood still, awaiting orders that they would have to obey. 

Hoynes delivered a slight nod to the room at large. "Before anyone jumps to conclusions, I had no say over coming here. The Secret Service wants me in the safest building around." 

Which made perfect sense, even if he didn't end up becoming President himself... but especially if he did. And that could happen at literally any moment. 

"Well, sir, this building does qualify." C.J. kept all animosity out of her voice. She always was the best actor on the payroll. 

"And you'll be on hand if any other crisis rears its head," Will added, likewise maintaining at least the façade of full cooperation. One doesn't need years of association to form bonds of loyalty. 

Hoynes allowed the ghost of a smile. "Let's just hope none does. We have enough of a challenge on the docket already." 

No one mentioned the Twenty-fifth Amendment out loud. Technically, it did not apply here - yet. Although separated from his command structure, indeed from all contact, Jed Bartlet was quite possibly still alive and well. Unless he was declared dead by the civil authorities, or by Congress, or unless someone invoked the Letter, his second-in-command had no claim to executive power. 

Of course, no one could say for sure that Bartlet _wasn't_ dead at this very instant... 

It made perfect sense to bring the Vice President here. In a crisis, the nation needed a visible leader more than ever. 

That didn't change the deeply-ingrained and utterly natural resentment of the White House staff for anyone other than their Commander-in-Chief assuming control. Just the sight of his constitutional heir and premier rival drove home how great the chance was that they'd never see the _real_ President again. 

To his credit, Hoynes looked even more uncomfortable. This was not the way he wanted to rise to the Oval Office - not by Bartlet's _death._ Certainly he had an excellent idea of what must have been running through the minds of the people arrayed before him now. 

The Vice President opened his arms, almost as though _he_ were asking for orders. "Well, I'm here. What can I do to help?" 

A generous offer... and a loaded question. What _could_ he do, besides just stand around like the rest of them and wait - until either he was not needed at all, or else he had to officially take up the mantle of his predecessor? 

THE SITUATION ROOM / U.S.S. HOUSTON 

"They're heading into the Atlantic. The press and everyone else have been cleared out of the way. Last I heard, the sub's still burning, and still sinking, and the reactor's still hot." Josh strode swiftly with Hoynes down the corridors of the West Wing, bringing him up to date. 

"And still no contact with anyone inside, huh?" 

"Afraid not. The sub's walls are too well insulated against electromagnetic traffic." Josh looked proud of himself for using such a recently-learned high-tech term. "No radios, no cell phones... nothing." 

"Figures. If some evil genius had planned this whole thing, he couldn't have conjured up a better scenario." 

"Yeah, somebody up there hates us for sure." Josh wasn't necessarily joking. 

"Then let's fight back with American ingenuity. The best weapon we've got." The Vice President cast a sideways glance even as they hustled down the stairs. "I want you to work closely with me through this, Josh. We can liaise for each other." 

"You got it, sir." Josh actually grinned. Had he feared being cut off, left out, severed from the source of all information by this man whom he'd once worked for - and whom he'd left to work for his greatest adversary? His former boss would have been less than human not to smart over that bit of history even now, since it was at least partly due to Josh jumping ship on the party favorite that led to Bartlet receiving the Democratic presidential nomination instead. 

Hoynes grunted, pursuing a different track. "I can't help wondering if this is how you and I might have ended up if I'd listened to you in ninety-eight." 

Josh's mouth dropped in surprise. He must not have thought of it that way before this moment, but it was true: he'd fallen into much the same supportive role towards Hoynes that Leo always provided to Bartlet, and as Leo would be offering Hoynes right now if he himself hadn't also been part of the ill-fated submarine tour. 

If Hoynes had listened to Josh, if Josh hadn't left Hoynes' campaign in frustration, if Leo hadn't encouraged Josh to give Bartlet a try... well, who knew? Might these two men have wound up running the White House and the country together? Josh did not yet have the maturity and the experience that Leo brought to the job of CoS, but he had the potential. 

They arrived at the door to the Situation Room. This time the Deputy Chief of Staff hung back. Abbey had needed him with her. Hoynes would not. 

"I... should get back upstairs. But I'll send an intern down. If you need me -" 

" _When_ I need you, I'll let you know." The Vice President gave him a light yet comradely clap on the arm, emphasizing that he meant what he said. Then he proceeded forward, alone. Josh watched as the Marines opened those doors for the heir apparent to the American Presidency at once. Not even the First Lady had been accorded that. 

This time there _was_ a brisk call to attention when the new arrival entered. Hoynes at once waved them down. "Thank you, but none of us have time for protocol." He selected Leo's seat, rather than the chair at the head of the table. 

He had been in this room before, but it would rattle the nerves of almost anyone almost every time. And because he didn't sit, neither did anyone else just yet. 

"Mr. Vice President." The National Security Advisor was all business, as usual, using the exact same tone she would have directed towards their Chief Executive. If any of the Joint Chiefs did not agree with this new addition to their councils, none of them showed it. They were professionals to the extreme. 

"I want to say one thing up front." Hoynes planted his feet firmly, braced his fingertips on the table, and met every pair of eyes in the room. His audience stiffened even more to attention. Did they anticipate a declaration of control? 

"Until we have proof, we are not going to assume or act as though the President is dead. I'm here purely in an advisory capacity. The more minds at work, the better. I'm not Acting President. We don't _need_ the power of the President for this. Necessity is what will win out, with history writing the final chapter on who was in 'power' and who wasn't. We're here to do a job for the common good: the nation, the world, and the President himself. We'll all do what we have to do, and give the orders we have to give. And I pray to God we'll accomplish the best possible result for everyone." 

Now that was a call to arms - in the most altruistic sense. This man had his own way with words. 

He received no immediate verbal response, but there might have been a change in the atmosphere... a rise of approval. 

"Well said, Mr. Vice President." 

Hoynes looked startled for a moment, and then discovered the source of that unmistakable voice: the open phone line. This brought out an involuntary grin. "Thank you, Mr. Chairman." Then he sobered up fast. "May I have a status report, please?" 

"Yes, sir." Nancy moved aside so that he could see the projected map on the front wall, a very large scale that included the Connecticut coastline and the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. Trident, New London and other large towns were labeled. "The fleet is currently just clearing the Race." She indicated the strait between Long Island and Block Island, where a grouping of four bright dots stood out clearly. Two were blue, one green... and one red. The route they'd already navigated showed in a hatched white line from Groton down the Thames and through the Sound. "All other vessels have been cleared away from the entire area." 

"The Hotspur rescue team is trying to get the forward hatch off completely," Fitzwallace explained. "It was badly damaged by the blast, but not blown clear. However, as a result of the hull damage, 'Navy One' is continuing to take on water; she's definitely down at the bow. Our boys really have their work cut out for them." 

Nancy added to this litany of bad news. "The torpedo fire is still burning inside. The SEALs have to be suited up against the flames, the water _and_ the radiation. The reactor remains hot; it won't get any better, and it can get worse." 

Hoynes drew a steadying breath. "How... how long can anyone realistically survive in such conditions?" 

"There are exactly two possibilities. If the President's party made it to a secure compartment - the Conn or missile control - then they're safe for now. Those chambers are built to withstand just this sort of thing." Then Nancy paused. 

"If they didn't..." 

Fitz picked up the dismal thread. "If they didn't, sir, then that's the ball game. Those are the only two spots on board with sufficient shielding." 

Silence. 

"Well." Hoynes drew himself up. "That means there are only two places to look for them. Should save the rescue team some time." 

"Unfortunately, neither compartment is easy to reach from outside. The fire and the radiation have to be contained before we can hope to get anybody out. _They_ don't have the gear." 

"Can we get the gear in to them?" 

Nancy shook her head. "Not without opening a hatch first. By now the radiation will be too intense. This is no longer a matter of radiation poisoning - the very air down there is ionized. The hatches and bulkheads are the only protection left. Open a door and you're toast." 

Hoynes looked a little ashen, confronting head-on all the barriers between them and success. "All right. How do we cool off the reactor?" 

"We don't," Fitz stated at once, killing that hope once and for all. "It's not possible at this stage. But if we can flood the lower deck at least, we can eliminate the problem. Water is the natural neutralizer of radiation." 

"Wait a second - if you flood the ship..." The Vice President looked more than ashen now; he looked aghast. "You'll be sinking her with everyone aboard!" 

"No, sir, that's not what we have in mind at all. It's a matter of proportion and displacement, with a ratio of about fifty-fifty. The ballast tanks will hold for sure; they have to be _manually_ blown. So long as there's air in at least half of the boat's compartments, she'll stay on the surface. The stern and bow decks would be awash, all right, but technically she'd be afloat, and frogmen could navigate the corridors easily enough. We'd have to control the water intake, and flood only the compartments that the prisoners need to pass through." 

Nancy exhaled, obviously having been over this angle before. "The fly in _that_ ointment is that they'd still have to open a hatch inside to get _to_ the prisoners. Even if they take enough air tanks for everyone, they'll be letting in a tidal wave first. And I'd like to point out that the water is _very_ cold. Not conducive to a long swim." 

Hoynes exhaled as well, but much more explosively. "Every idea you've come up with has a major flaw in it! Is there _any_ hope left that we might be able to pull out survivors instead of bodies?" 

"We're still working on it, sir." Fitz did not sound annoyed at being taken to task for not producing the magic solution against all odds; rather, he sounded regretful that he'd failed to do that very thing. "Just a reminder that 'Navy One' is still some distance from safe water. If she blows before it gets deep enough, even if she's scuttled prior to the actual detonation, there will be _some_ contamination of the atmosphere." He hesitated, and no doubt everyone shared his mental image of both events. "Also, the lower she rides, the harder the towing. But in another few hours we'll approach the point where, if we do have to scuttle her early, it will be environmentally safe to do so." 

"Environmentally safe. Right." The Vice President planted both palms on the table surface and leaned forward, weighted down by pessimism. For a moment his head hung in near-defeat. No one interrupted. 

Then, slowly, he straightened. 

"Fine. We keep at it up to the very last second. Never say die. In the meantime, I have a new wrinkle for you folks to ponder." 

Every brow drew down. 

"Sir?" Nancy spoke for them all. 

Hoynes surveyed the few people locked in here with him, utilizing their specialized knowledge and influence, working together to make decisions of critical importance. 

"Has any of you taken a moment to ask yourselves if this entire reactor problem could have been deliberately orchestrated?" 

NAVY ONE 

"All right! _This_ one I can fix!" 

A wave of cheers echoed up the empty silo to the top, where Lieutenant Lung hovered just under the escape hatch. 

"How difficult is it?" Hyde asked, standing on the silo's floor, in the exact spot where a ballistic missile would have been positioned prior to the Special Ops modifications. 

"It's not another burnt circuit: the connection must have been loose already. Looks to me like the resulting spark popped it right out instead. Just needs reconnecting." 

"Then make it so." 

"Aye, sir." Lung locked himself more securely into the ladder, shifted his flashlight to his teeth, and started fiddling with his free hand. The interior walls of the Special Ops silo were service gray, reflecting at least some of the illumination and improving his vision. 

The boat's skipper stepped out through the access hatch, confronted eight hopeful faces, and confirmed their hopes. "We're in luck. Unlike the first silo's hatch, the electrical short didn't fry _this_ one as well. It should only be a few more minutes." 

"One little power surge and this whole boat is damned near down for the count," Leo muttered. "God, we're dependent upon electricity." 

Toby snorted. "Either that, or we're jinxed." 

"And I know I'm the cause of that jinx," the President agreed at once. "No need to say it." 

His Communications Director drew up, affronted. "Sir, I didn't mean that at -" 

"Oh, of course you did. But it's quite all right," Bartlet continued merrily, not allowing a word in edgewise. "After all, consider how peaceful and safe your life was before you came to work for me." 

That merry note did not entirely cover the faint undercurrent of guilt. His daughter _and_ his extended family were in danger, all in his presence and mostly due to his job. Logically, there is nothing one can do about that sort of thing. Emotions, though, don't allow for logic on a _good_ day. 

Ron shifted back onto the subject at hand before his protectee could further advance the tangent. "That power spike has ruined almost every system on board. Is it realistic to hope that Wayne can fix the problem this time? Or if he can't, is there any way to open the hatch manually?" 

"Actually, there is." Hyde returned to the control box on the silo's exterior wall. "But I wouldn't recommend it." 

"Why not?" Ron looked ominous that this detail hadn't been mentioned to him before. 

"In every external silo hatch, there's an explosive charge. That's what they'd use to dump a hot missile running wild. It's not that big an explosion: just enough to blow the securing bolts and fling the outer hatch right off the hull." The Commander paused. "Thing is, those charges are usually set off without anyone in the tube. Also, how do we know there's no one on the exterior deck right now? A flying chunk of titanium could kill a man." 

Nervous glances made the rounds. 

Ron made the call. "If Wayne can't splice the connection," his voice grim and final, "we'll blow the hatch. It's a chance - against a certainty. There's no other way out of here." 

Everyone stood motionless, closely following this discussion between the two men with the strongest claim to leadership of their cadre. 

Then Hyde nodded. Play the odds. "Agreed." 

Not far off, Eleanor stood beside DeSoto. His dark skin to her pale skin, his midnight curls to her light brown tresses, his broad-shouldered height to her petite figure, made them look like a Nubian guard protecting a fair princess. 

"The reputation of the United States Navy has taken a beating today," he commented softly. " _Both_ escape routes refuse to open on command." 

She tilted her head, considering. "I guess there's just no way to protect the wiring from a severe power flush. At least these big bottom doors both worked, or else we wouldn't have a chance. And right now there's a sailor up that ladder hot-wiring with one hand. No, I don't think the Navy's let us down just yet." 

"Point for you." DeSoto glanced idly around... and almost inevitably, his attention fell upon the President. 

"Your dad's really something." 

Bartlet had stuck his head into the silo to peer up at where Lung was working in semi-darkness. He didn't step right inside - that would do his nerves no favors - but even the sight of this perfectly round, two-yard-wide cylinder where nuclear warheads had once been housed was enough to jar anyone's thoughts. Still, he would soon be climbing up that ladder himself, so he had to mentally prepare for the trip. 

Ellie smiled. "Yeah, he's got this predilection for taking the difficult route." 

"Not only that, he's neat to work with." 

The President had pretty much succeeded in one aspect: getting everyone to relax around him. The instinctive _fear_ of his office had been eased through his insistence that he work right alongside everyone else. Even his closest staffers normally had to maintain some distance - even his oldest and dearest friend - even though The Man had never been wild about that. Now, however, they were pulling together for their lives. They _had_ to get past the titles and the pre-formed imagery, just as he'd instructed them to. 

This time it was Donnie who started glancing about, searching for confirmation that their state of affairs had changed. "Sir? I think the list is increasing." 

Of them all, Toby appreciated this news the least. 

Curiously, Hyde didn't seem that worried at all. "You're right, but it's okay. It won't list much further." 

"It _won't?_ " DeSoto exclaimed, his terror pulsing forth. "We're SINKING!" 

"No, we're _not,_ " the Commander hastened to reassure him and everyone else as well. "We're just down at the bow. The boat _can't_ sink - not unless more than half of her interior compartments are flooded as well. Not with the ballast and trim tanks at positive buoyancy. Trust me, it won't get that far. The bow will slide underwater to a certain point and then stop, because the stern is essentially holding us on the surface." 

"That won't help the towing," Leo guessed. 

"True. The towing bollards are on either side of the bow. The only safe way to tow a vessel like this is with a tugboat flanking each bow quarter; that way they can control the speed and direction. The lower the bow, the more trouble they'll have. But if we weren't making good progress, we wouldn't be feeling the swells as much." 

Toby had paled further, either from the rocking movement underfoot or the knowledge of what awaited them - or both. "So we're still on track to the end of the line." 

"How far?" Ron demanded. "And how long?" 

"And will that be in statute miles or nautical miles?" Bartlet piped up. Clearly he hadn't yet had his usual ration of extraneous minutiae today. "After all, a statute mile is one thousand, seven hundred and sixty yards, whereas a nautical mile is two thousand, twenty-five yards; that's fifteen per cent more." The fact that he had all these figures in his head impressed some of his listeners, and dismayed others. "A knot, by the way, is equivalent to one nautical mile per hour. It was originally measured by a ship trailing a long rope off the fantail, with large knots tied along its length every -" 

"Dad!" Ellie broke in before anyone else succumbed to the impulse and threw protocol to the four winds. "You torture these people enough on a normal day. Give them a break!" 

"I don't torture them." He sounded downright hurt that she should suggest such a thing. "I _teach_ them. Now if _they_ consider it torture, then they _need_ more teaching..." 

Leo gave Toby a sympathetic grin. "You don't look so good." 

"Between the waves and the trivia, I'm about at the end of _my_ rope." 

"I know how you feel." 

"Captain!" Lung called down from his elevated perch. 

Hyde at once stepped back inside the silo. "Yes?" 

His executive officer hung just under the black hatch, the last barrier between them and the open air, waving his flashlight in triumph. "Got it, sir. By rights, everything should work this time!" 

Several pairs of lungs expelled a deep breath of relief. 

"Good to hear, Lieutenant. Now come on down. I'm not even _trying_ to open the top until you're out and the access hatch is sealed. We won't take any chances now; this is no time to go swimming." 

"Aye, sir." 

Ron reasserted his authority over the details of the evacuation. "Let us know the _moment_ you get a green light. Even if there's no water that far up the deck yet, this boat just might sink a bit more at any min -" 

Without warning, the entire submarine lurched hard. It felt as though some large object had smashed into one side, even though there was no thunder of impact. Everyone staggered for balance, casting looks of apprehension in all directions. 

In the silo, Lung came to within an ace of falling thirty feet. He grabbed for the ladder with hands and feet, and just managed to hold on. 

In the lowest portion of the ceiling, the forgotten steel mesh panel decided it had had enough of hanging around even more precariously. Its last screw snapped sharply, and with a screech it plunged free. 

Charlie spotted it first. "Look out!" he yelled. 

Every head jerked up. 

At that critical instant, Toby stood right underneath. 

"TOBY!" Bartlet shouted. 

The President of the United States catapulted forward, as though launched from one of his own missile silos, and slammed full into his Communications Director like a linebacker. 

Pure physics. The motionless object received a great infusion of energy and was propelled violently forward, out of the path of danger. The moving object, having transferred all of _its_ energy to another, stumbled to a momentary halt - _in_ the path of danger. 

The large steel panel crashed deck-ward, not caring in the least what or who stood in its way. 


	10. All Things Being Equal 10

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

THE SITUATION ROOM / U.S.S. HOUSTON 

"We've put this off long enough." The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs happened to possess the kind of voice that made important statements sound even more serious. "The next question is, where?" 

Nancy studied the electronic map, ever tracking the "Callanan's" progress. "Running on the assumption that we don't have to sink her early, what do you recommend?" 

Everyone in the Situation Room could hear the rustle of heavy paper through the phone line as Fitzwallace opened a navigational chart onto a table aboard the "Houston". The fact that his map was very low-tech made no difference in its accuracy. 

"I like that assumption, but I'm not going to bank on it. Not even the flooding in the bow has managed to put out the torpedo fire yet. If 'Navy One' is about to blow completely, we'll get very little warning - she'll have to be scuttled on the spot. In that case, even five hundred feet will look good." 

Nancy hit a button on a console built into the table near her seat. "Major? Give me some depth measurements." Inside of four seconds her virtual map became dotted with small blue numerical values all over the different bodies of water. She peered closely at the immediate surroundings of the four moving colored dots. "We're not there yet. So, we might as well take a moment to consider the _best_ scenario." 

"Then I say we should aim for a rough area south of Nantucket and east of New York City. It gets over sixty-five hundred fast." 

Whoever was in charge of audio-visual didn't need to be told this time: dark blue lines of latitude and longitude converged in a blip to mark that possible target region. Then a series of bright pink lines thoughtfully provided the prevalent surface distances as well. 

Nancy read these computed figures aloud for the Chairman's benefit. "It's ten and a half miles from Trident to the mouth of the Thames, then another twenty-six miles through the Sound and the Race to the end of Long Island. From there to the locale you have in mind is at least another ninety miles." She checked her wristwatch. "They've traveled a good forty-five miles in fair time, but the drop zone is still a ways away." 

"There's another factor to consider. We want that boat sunk _deep._ We sure don't want anyone going looking for it later. Both because it's major technology -" 

"And because it may well become a tomb," she finished baldly. 

A brief yet shuddering silence fell. 

Fitz found some small comfort in raw data, stripped of its emotion. "Again assuming that we don't have to accelerate events, I'll explain the topography. I've had some help in this from the 'Houston's' resident oceanographer." 

"Go for it. We'll follow along." 

"Well, in general the Eastern Seaboard has a much wider continental shelf than the West Coast. It's good news for fishermen, but right now it works against us. If this had happened to some boat from the _Pacific_ Fleet instead, we'd be saved easily eighty miles of distance." 

The projection suddenly divided itself in half, keeping the map on the left, but on the right showing a simple cut-away diagram of the Atlantic from sea level to ocean floor and from the United States to Bermuda. Where the Sit Room staff got these textbook-style images, no one asked. After all, they had to be prepared for _everything._

"The shelf drops off abruptly at about six hundred feet, no matter how close _or_ far from shore that six-hundred-foot mark may be. Now we're talking a _big_ cliff. It falls down the continental slope to over ten thousand feet within a few surface miles." The projection coughed up arrows and measurements almost as fast as Fitz could rhyme them off. 

"Due east of Philadelphia is the Hudson Canyon; it's well over _thirteen_ thousand feet. That'd be a great place, but it's another few hours beyond the closest shelf lip. Granted, if the reactor holds, we _could_ extend the tow that way - especially if the rescue isn't yet complete." 

"However," Nancy cut in, "with every minute of surface travel, the risk to the tug crews, the 'Houston' and everyone else increases." 

The voice on the line grew rougher. "It does. If we assume some more - for example, that the rescue is complete by the time we hit the slope - we should scuttle the boat at once." 

The NSA shook her head gloomily. "If the rescue _isn't_ complete by then, we're going to have to balance some serious global factors." 

"Excuse me." 

For the first time in several minutes, someone else in this room spoke up. Every head turned towards John Hoynes near the table's far end. 

"Yes, Mr. Vice President?" No doubt Nancy did not expect this interruption to be on account of _good_ news. 

"I'd like to call for a moment of reflection at what we're doing." Hoynes surveyed the faces gathered around him. "This isn't a naval exercise, or an oceanographic puzzle. We few people here now are essentially debating where the grave of our current President will be." 

He seemed to have aged since he arrived, not so long ago. "History will remember our conversation, almost word for word." 

The chamber rang with the meaning of this short yet vital speech. 

THE WEST WING 

Right from the very first time he walked into the White House half a year ago, Will Bailey had always had something specific - and urgent - to do. Until now. 

There really was nothing for anyone to do. Well, except Josh, who ran down to the Situation Room every few minutes, in case someone had information for him and the intern he'd assigned as a runner lost her way. And C.J., who had to constantly prepare for her next briefing, which meant pouring over every scrap of information once Josh provided it. And Donna, who shuttled all possible descriptions of paperwork to and fro, leaving no one to wonder how she kept so trim despite the junk food that inevitably turned up on the countless evening shifts in this place. And the rest of the support staff, who continued to make phone calls, take phone calls, schedule appointments, type letters, send faxes, print reports, file reports and generally keep the administration running. After all, even if there was a change to the Administration itself, the business of the nation went on. 

So, actually, there was something for everyone to do _except_ Will. All legislation, all new policy, all speeches and all meetings had been back-benched until this crisis resolved itself, for better or for worse. As a writer and a lawyer, he had been rendered essentially useless by a critical nuclear reactor. 

Not so different from the President himself, come to think of it. 

Josh came blazing past yet again, the only employee more on the run than his own assistant. Most Secret Service operatives looked generally alike, in their dark business attire, short haircuts and impassive faces, yet this really did look like a different bodyguard shadowing him than at the start. 

Will noticed that. "You need to slow down. Looks like you've busted your first agent already." In one way at least, he meshed with this eclectic group of civil servants perfectly - he possessed the same brand of sardonic humor. 

Josh did not smile. "I'll speak to Ron about improving their fitness level." 

"Right. Now don't tell me, let me guess: no news is good news." 

Joshua Lyman belonged to that peculiar genus of human that works best under pressure, that thrives in adverse conditions, that harnesses its own momentum and channels every bit of potential energy into pure kinetic power. However, there has to be a mortal limit somewhere. His jacket was off, his tie askew, his hair disheveled, and his eyes wild. 

"No news is _never_ good news. Information is armor; ignorance leaves you open to attack." He peered in all directions. "Where's C.J.?" 

Will allowed himself the merest grin. Just because he couldn't see their Press Secretary at this instant, did Josh fear that she was nowhere to be found? "Don't worry; she hasn't fled the scene just yet." 

"She'd _better_ not. We need another briefing soon." 

"Take it easy! No one's after your blood." The Deputy Communications Director wore a look of sympathy. "The Joint Chiefs can be a bit intimidating, huh?" 

Ninety-nine per cent of the time, the Deputy Chief of Staff would find any number of wisecracks to defend his ego from comments like that. Today this self-defense mechanism seemed to have completely deserted him. "Give me a rabid pack of lobbyists any day. I _never_ deal with these guys. That's Leo's realm. Even Hoynes is better at it than me." 

"Speaking of whom..." Will's own amusement gave ground before no little concern. "I don't know him at all -" 

"I used to work for him. He can be trusted." Josh paused, trying to calm his heart rate with some deep breaths and trying to smooth his hair with one hand - and had limited success on both fronts. "He'll do a good job of maintaining the illusion of command for the country. He doesn't have direct military experience either, but he knows who to listen to and how to lead." 

Will didn't look totally convinced. "He's not after the President's chair?" 

"Well... he is." Josh couldn't deny that. "But not _this_ way." 

Will let out an extra breath himself, in no small relief. 

"Anyway, I need C.J., like right now. She's gonna share the spotlight with him at the next briefing." 

"Oh, she'll love you for that bit of stage management." 

"Yeah; she's probably avoiding me as a result." Josh took off, accelerating into his frenetic pace at once. His personal agent had probably appreciated the rest break; there might not be another for some time. 

Will barely had a chance to resume wondering what task he could start when C.J. arrived from the opposite direction. 

"Is Josh looking for me?" she asked before Will could more than open his mouth. At his nod, her face fell. "Hoynes at the next briefing?" 

He definitely smiled now. Sometimes the people here were startlingly synchronized. "You must've majored in telepathy." 

"Telekinesis. But I gave that up when I found it didn't apply to moving bills through the House." Then C.J. abandoned her deadpan resignation to look at her colleague more closely. "I don't have to ask how Josh is doing; I know. How are _you_ doing?" 

Will fidgeted. "I feel the urge to write, but I've got no idea what to say... or even what subject. Being the last writer around doesn't help, either." His youthful features sank. "The terrifying thought is that when this is over, I may have to write a presidential eulogy. And one for my boss, _and_ one for my boss's boss as well." 

She did not move, did not blink, did not reply. There was absolutely nothing that anyone could say to that - and not because it referred just to high-ranked supervisors. Because it also referred to friends. 

In the end, she could only touch him lightly on the arm, and nod. 

C.J. headed off on her own errands... and Josh reappeared, still on the hunt. 

Will didn't wait for the question this time. "That way." He pointed down the hall. "And she already knows." 

Josh shook his head, far from encouraged by the news that he was closing in on his prey. "Okay, so she knows. She has yet to be _convinced._ And I haven't even tried to convince Hoynes yet." With only a minor drop in velocity, he plotted a pursuit course. 

"One moment please, Mr. Lyman." To both staffers' considerable surprise, it was Josh's personal agent who spoke. 

"Huh?" This time Josh actually stopped. 

The bodyguard gave no explanation. He turned and moved off, as though deciding on his own initiative to abandon his current protectee entirely. "Miss Moss?" 

Donna, on her way into the bullpen again, arms loaded as usual, braked so fast she almost dropped everything. "Yes?" 

Her comrades looked no less amazed. What could the Secret Service want with _her?_

"She's here." Typical of this particular wing of the Treasury, the answer was brief, to the point and revealed nothing. 

From Donna's expression she wasn't enthused, but she understood just fine even though the guys didn't. "Thank you." At once she headed for her desk and deposited the whole load. Whatever had just come up, it trumped all else. 

Both Josh and Will stared as the agent placidly returned to his post, and as Donna cut a fast trail out of the office. 

She hurried through the West Wing towards the Oval Office... just in time to meet a knot of black-suited agents heading her way, with Zoey Bartlet in their midst. 

"Zoey." Donna went up to this college student, who was mere weeks from graduation. 

The youngest Bartlet had inherited the character strength of both her remarkable parents. She'd also been in the spotlight more than her sisters. She knew the value of public appearances; she knew the danger of a celebrity life; she knew the pain of an invasive press. She knew how to behave before the critical eye of the world, and how to hide her true feelings behind a polite mask. It all came with the territory... a fact that did not make it easier to bear. 

She and her escort all recognized Donna's role as today's welcome committee. _Here_ was the source of what they wanted to know. Zoey virtually pounced upon that. "What's the latest? Any news?" 

"Yes. Your mother sent me." Josh's assistant exercised care not to show alarm or regret or anything that might be misinterpreted by an overanxious mind. She fell into step, subtly leading the way. "How are you doing? I know that's a silly question, but..." 

Here, among friends and family, Zoey did not have to pretend. For all her accelerated maturity as the daughter of a Congressman, Governor and President, she was young and vulnerable. Her worry and fear shone forth as brightly as any lighthouse beacon; indeed, as brightly as Abbey's had done. 

"To be honest - I can't say." 

Donna offered a brief, soft smile. "That doesn't surprise me. I think we're all feeling something at least a bit similar. Come on. I'll fill you in." She guided them towards Communications, and the relative seclusion of Josh's office. 

"Where's my mom?" It was the most natural question in the world, devoid of accusation or even suspicion. Yet it had the power to make Donna jerk visibly. 

There was no point in trying to cover up the truth, or even put it off. At least the older woman tried to break it gently. "She's not here. They offered to fly her out to the fleet, and she accepted. She just left." 

"She left?" Zoey halted on the spot. So did everyone else. 

"She _left?_ " Her mother wasn't here, wasn't available to offer comfort and reassurance... "To go there?" She'd deliberately headed into the danger zone... "Without me?" Now there _was_ accusation - and hurt. 

"Zoey, she just couldn't wait." Donna poured every ounce of sincerity into her voice, further flavored with her own concern. "She wanted to so badly, but you were delayed in traffic. They're not even sure she'll get out there in time!" 

"In _time?_ In time for WHAT?" 

Obviously no one had elected to detail the hard, anguishing facts to this twenty-three-year-old girl, with both a father and a sister at risk of their lives - and now a mother as well. Donna could certainly understand that reticence; it was not an enjoyable duty. But said reticence conveniently dumped said duty right into her lap. 

She started to explain - 

_They can't get into the sub. They can't contact anyone inside the sub. They don't know if anyone is still alive inside the sub. They may have to sink the sub, whether or not anyone inside still IS alive. Fire. Water. Radiation. Global fallout..._

\- And found that she couldn't. Not one sound came out. 

"This is a damned waste of time!" A masculine voice trumpeted the pending arrival from around a nearby corner. "And the _worst_ possible time! What if that sub explodes during the very minutes I'm not there? Hell, we could easily end up sinking it ourselves, rescue or _no_ rescue! And they want me to do a press conference? _Now?_ Timing aside, the nation is going to jump to the worst possible -" 

Hoynes burst into view, flanked by a White House intern and surrounded by security. He was in full stride and mid-rant when he saw the group clustered in his path... from which one young, terrified face blared forth. 

He screeched to a stop. His followers did the same. Everyone from both groups stood frozen. He could not have looked more guilty. She could not have looked more stricken. 

Donna placed a close second on both counts. She'd had her chance to express the brutal reality in a far more sympathetic way, and she'd failed. 

Now Hoynes moved, inching closer, in much the same way he'd reacted to meeting Abbey not so long before. Not _too_ close, though. Anger and frustration had evaporated; all he could see was the pain he'd unwittingly inflicted. 

"Zoey... I'm - I'm sorry. That must have sounded horribly unfeeling of me." 

It had - especially to her. Coming from the man who would inherit what rightfully belonged to her father alone... the day her father died. 

She stood motionless, every muscle taut, as though on the verge of flight from this place, these people, and all the inconceivable facts that had been hidden from her until now. 

He scrounged for words, something almost unheard-of for any politician. "I just came from the Situation Room. The tension there is awful - But of course, that's no excuse. And it can't compare to what you're going through right now. I promise... I _swear_ to you... we're doing everything we can. We'll accomplish the _impossible_ if that's what it takes. But we're going to get your father home." 

Hoynes had more than once engaged in fiery argument with the President himself. To see him here now, apologizing brokenly to this very young woman, was to see federal policy exiled to its proper place of low consequence when family and friends hung in the balance. 

In the subsequent quiet filling this strangely still corridor, as he shrank back in anticipation of the condemnation he clearly felt he deserved, Zoey slowly pulled herself together. 

"I know you will, Mr. Vice President." The formal title sounded strange coming from her - almost _too_ grown-up. In a way, it lent further weight to her words, even as the Bartlet courage lent strength to her stance. "I have absolutely no doubt of it." 

They _all_ were living on hope these hours. 

Hoynes wasn't the only one to exhale softly. 

Also true to her heritage, Zoey used humor as a method of defense... and, indeed, escape. She waited one more heartbeat, locking her self-control resolutely into place, struggling to sound natural. "So it looks like my dad's pulled off _another_ first. He loves doing that, just to make our lives more exciting." 

Both Hoynes and Donna smiled - in relief, amusement and admiration. 

Encouraged, Zoey attempted a smile of her own. Control and humor were both good, no matter how fabricated: good for her, and good for them as well. Her voice sounded almost normal. "If Ellie and Leo and Charlie weren't there to keep an eye on him, I'd _really_ be worried!" 

Then she hesitated, remembering that she had a few additional stakes in this: her sister, her former boyfriend, and her honorary uncle. But a depressing thought like that could not be allowed to fester. If it did, hope would never survive. 

"And with my mother on the scene as well, success is a done deal." 

NAVY ONE 

"Get it off! Get it OFF him!" 

"Calm down! If we rush this -" 

"Everyone get a firm grip. Don't jerk. Smoothly now..." 

"Slow! One wrong move -" 

"And watch yourselves, too! We don't need any _more_ casualties!" 

"Okay, together!" 

"Damn, it's not heavy at all!" 

"It's heavy enough." 

"Now - shuffle back. Easy..." 

Eight pairs of hands raised the three-foot-square steel mesh panel and lifted it away. Even before they cleared completely, Eleanor was on her knees beside its victim. 

"Dad...?" 

If the President had been even partly conscious, the fear in his daughter's voice would have drawn him back from the brink. Face down, eyes closed, limbs slack, he gave no visible sign of life at all. 

Ellie's hand darted to the carotid artery in his neck. Even as they set down that murderous panel, everyone else held their breath... 

"He's alive!" 

That communally held breath whooshed out. It seemed unlikely that such a light screen could _kill,_ but those two words contained a wealth of reassurance. 

Leo and Charlie tied each other in their simultaneous rush over. 

Ron held back; a bodyguard was of little use after the fact. He looked more ferocious than ever, as though he was directly to blame for this latest disaster. 

Toby did not advance, either. He looked more horrified than anyone else; doubtless he believed he _was_ to blame. 

Leo knew something of the strain a doctor is under when trying to treat a family member; he'd seen this happen before in this very family. Yet Ellie's hands faltered only slightly as she checked her father for injuries. 

"Breathing is regular." That was her second priority. She ran gentle fingers through his hair, being very careful not to move him. "Okay, I think it missed his head; no laceration, no swelling." That concern came third. 

The silence in this compartment seemed to have a volume all its own. Eight out of nine fellow occupants hung upon her every word. 

The ninth... was oblivious. 

The lines in Leo's face deepened. Besides specializing in seeing the wider picture, he had a personal sake in their leader's welfare as well. After a moment, he placed an avuncular hand on Ellie's shoulder. He didn't need to say a thing. She didn't look his way, but she did lean a bit into the touch, drawing strength from his support. Her stricken expression eased another degree or two. She needed to be absolutely focused. 

Charlie, across from them both, haunted by his own personal connection, hovered in total uselessness, but he never considered moving away. 

Anyone who's ever dressed or undressed a toddler knows how hard it is to maneuver clothing around uncoordinated or resisting limbs - and that's just a child. An unconscious adult exemplifies the morbid term "dead weight." Ellie didn't even try. Besides, the risk of spinal trauma precluded moving the casualty at all. She settled for lifting and easing aside the dark blazer. That white shirt would hide little in the way of physical damage. 

All of them spotted the single wound together: scarlet on snow, about halfway down the rib cage, welling through a rent in the cloth. 

Ellie bent close. "It's superficial. A small gouge. Probably from the sharp edge of the panel. I just hope it didn't crack a rib - that'll have repercussions on his breathing when he revives." Her fingers probed delicately around the point of contact, judging pressure levels. "I don't _think_ anything's broken, anyway." 

"If the corner caught him there..." Leo looked even paler than she did. "Then where'd the _rest_ of the frame hit?" 

This time Ellie's breath hissed out; a discouraging sound... a sound of anxiety. "Probably right here." She had found something else on her father's lower back, not far from that small tear and bloodstain, and she was treating it with extreme caution. 

Now Ron stepped forward. "What?" 

"Bruising. I can feel it already. He must've taken it partly across his shoulders, with the hardest blow lower down. I'd say we've got at least one ruptured vein. Possibly _more_ than one." Ellie's forced composure was faltering. This had to be bad news. 

"Bruising already?" Hyde frowned. "But the panel isn't _that_ heavy!" 

Ron shook his head, just once. "Depends upon the speed of its fall, and where and how it hits." 

"Also," Leo added gravely, "the President has a history of intermittent lower back trouble." His senior staff had known that for years. 

Hyde shuddered; this previously unpublicized fact must have triggered every sympathetic instinct he had. "Meaning he's more susceptible to injury there. Plus, he's - what? Sixty? Bones get more brittle with age..." 

"My God!" That came from DeSoto. "He could be p -" He almost literally choked on the word "paralyzed." 

"Don't jump to conclusions!" Leo snapped. He had enough work to maintain his own control, much less reassure other people at the same time. 

"A spinal injury doesn't necessarily mean broken bones," Ellie explained quietly, as much to herself as to anyone else. "It can also be caused by internal pressure from the blow itself. We've already got subcutaneous bruising; that means a massive buildup of blood where it shouldn't be. Which means an intense strain on the nerves around the spinal cord." 

She sighed unevenly. Even if she'd managed the near-impossible and pushed aside the glaring knowledge that _this was her father,_ these medical facts still translated into severe trauma to a human being. "But I've got no instrumentation. Without a CT or MRI, we can't be sure if it's only internal bleeding, which is more than enough... or an actual fracture as well." Pause. "And unlike a fracture, internal bleeding gets worse over time." 

Silence. 

Ron nodded. "Well, we sure can't move him. Not until he's conscious at least, and can _prove_ there's no spinal damage. And probably not even then. Donnie: you've just become a nurse. The rest of us will give you some room." 

Donnie accepted his orders; all Secret Service operatives had to have extensive first-aid training. His supervisor, naturally, was better suited to supervising just now. 

Showing great reluctance, even though he knew he couldn't do as much to help, Charlie backed off and let the agent take his place. Showing even greater reluctance, Leo acceded to Ron's veiled broadband order and likewise withdrew. 

The men drifted a few yards away, trying not to stare at the unnerving and utterly _wrong_ sight of their fallen Commander-in-Chief. They knew Ellie would report instantly on any changes, for better or for worse. 

Hyde spoke first. "Damn. This is a complication we did not need. Not that we needed the others, either." He sounded almost flippant - which had to be a mask over the real feelings beneath. None of them were less than appalled by this new twist to events. "There's no way he's going up that silo and out the escape hatch now." 

Ron cast a critical eye on the open cylinder towering above them. "How wide is it?" 

"Um... eighty-eight inches, if I recall the specs right." 

"Eighty-eight... _Just_ might be wide enough for a backboard. And that's what it'll take." Ron's mask consisted of taking charge and planning action. "The first person out has to get word to the SEALs to fly one over, _fast._ The choppers all have winches." 

The Commander looked skeptical. "It'll be a narrow fit." 

The Special Agent in Charge let slip a bit more of the anger he normally locked down. "What alternative is there? We've _got_ to support his spine; I don't care how well he feels when he comes to. Also, if a rib is cracked, he wouldn't be able to climb unassisted anyway. And if that rib breaks completely, it could puncture a lung." 

"For my money, it's better to live crippled than die able-bodied," Hyde observed practically. "President or not." 

That gave Ron pause. "His family and friends would probably agree with you." Of course the government had its own way of dealing with either result. 

"This is my fault." Ellie's low, quavering voice jerked them towards her. She still crouched beside her horribly motionless father, still watched him for any sign of awakening - or worsening - and she did not meet their eyes. "If only I'd fastened that panel again..." 

"No, it's _my_ fault," Hyde told her gently. "I should've seen to it. I'm master of the boat. It's my _job._ " 

"I saw it fall," Charlie added, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. "If only I'd reacted faster..." 

"That's enough!" Ron glared at them all. "It was an accident. Nobody can anticipate every possible angle. If anyone is blamed, it will be me. I bear the ultimate responsibility. But we can't undo the damage, so let's concentrate on what we _can_ do." 

Toby took no part in any of this. He stood alone far to one side, leaning against the bulkhead as though unable to stand upright otherwise. His usually reserved features for once blared forth the turmoil of emotions behind. His eyes remained large, traumatized, and fastened upon the body lying prone on the deck. This sight bore a fearful resemblance to the time he had charged into the Oval Office over three years ago and found this same man out cold on the carpet. 

Except that he himself hadn't been a direct factor in the result _that_ time. 

DeSoto wandered over. He couldn't contribute much to the current discussion, anyway. There is a natural desire in all but the hardest of hearts to comfort others in distress. 

"Hey." 

Toby didn't even glance at him. However, he didn't move away or order this intruder off, either. There is also a natural desire to _seek_ comfort in distress, to vocalize one's fears in the hope that things will be made clearer... or at least less awful. 

" _I'm_ the cause. It should be _me_ lying there." This speechwriter's standard eloquence, even in the most casual moments, had fled. "If I'd been standing anywhere else..." 

DeSoto selected the light approach. "Yeah, it's all your fault for choosing that one particular spot to hang around. Come on, man..." 

Normally the White House Communications Director would be the first to fly into a pitched argument, regardless of who was involved or what it was about, and especially when it got personal. His total lack of battle fury here would have amazed his closest colleagues. He spoke barely above a whisper. 

"He... he risked his _life_... for me. To protect... me." Toby scrubbed a hand across his face; the hand trembled. "It shouldn't be this way! _We're_ supposed to protect HIM!" He sounded like he had failed in the most basic of his assigned duties - and the most critical. 

The reporter gave _this_ speech the serious consideration it deserved. "Yeah, I can see the point. You might not have voted for whoever's currently in the office, but you respect the office itself. Although this President must like _you_ a whole lot to do what he did." From his tone, the fact that one could be so well known and liked by one's supreme commander was a captivating thought. 

Toby turned his head slowly. "I'm going to prove you wrong on _both_ counts." His voice and his eyes acquired a distinct edge. "Yes, we revere the high office itself - but the man occupying it can make all the difference in the world." Pause for effect. "And _this_ President would have done that for _anyone._ " 

Now that _really_ got DeSoto thinking... 

"Pop the hatch." Ron had returned to the whole point behind that falling panel in the first place. Some of his audience blinked; they'd been so horrified for their leader that they'd forgotten about escape itself for several minutes. "Everyone leaves. Except me." 

"Like hell we're leaving." Leo wouldn't even consider such an order, no matter if it came from the President himself. 

"Yes, you are." Ron wasn't used to being disobeyed. "You can't do any further good here, for anyone. In fact the President would be the first to insist that you not run any useless risk on his behalf. The truth is, you'll only be in the way." 

"We're _not_ leaving him behind." From his stance right now, the reputation and authority and _strength_ of the whole United States Secret Service would have failed to shift Leo one foot. 

"Yes, you _are._ " 

_That_ voice could not be mistaken. If everyone had whipped about when Ellie spoke up earlier, they _really_ about-faced this time. 

"Dad?" 

Jed Bartlet hadn't moved at all. But clearly he was conscious at last. And somehow, even with his eyes closed and his face pressed into the cold hard deck, he still managed a joke. "I know what you're going to say: I'm an accident waiting to happen." 

Irritating and patience-trying his humor might be at times, but right now it could only be seen as a wonderful sign. 

Then Ellie's next automatic reaction was anger. "Have you been playing possum?" 

"Only for a moment or two. Just getting my bearings." Never let it be said that he did not know when _not_ to joke - or when not to tax his family members' personal thresholds. "So, what'd I miss?" Now he opened his eyes, looked around as best he could without moving his head, and then started to shift. 

"No!" She at once placed a hand on his shoulder to forestall any such action. "First tell me _exactly_ how you feel." The men gathered, one fearful step at a time. 

"Oh, I'm fine..." The President tried once more - but between her tactile objection and his own injuries he got nowhere, subsiding with a bitten-off groan. For the next few seconds he kept his eyes closed and just concentrated on breathing. 

"The truth." Ellie sounded scarily like her mother just now. 

He glanced around again, checking out his very restricted field of view. "You see what happens, Leo, when I give my women too much rein? They get to the point where the office means nothing to them!" 

This light-hearted aside had been for all of their benefit, but probably Leo's most of all. It didn't clear the anxiety from the Chief of Staff's face, though. He settled for a noncommittal "Imagine that." 

Ellie made a suggestive noise in her throat, indicating that her ire was on the rise. Bartlet got the idea. "Well, _I_ think I'm thinking clearly, although the rest of you might dispute that." 

"You're obviously in pain. Try not to move if you don't have to." 

"The right side of my jaw is what hurts most. These floors need more padding. The next thing you'll tell me is I should stop smiling." 

His daughter had no time for comedy. "Can you feel this?" She administered a very light touch to the bruised region of his back. 

"Feel -" he tried to muffle a grunt of discomfort "- what?" 

"Answers _that_ question. Any sensation in your extremities?" 

"Fingers, sure." He wiggled them just to prove it, then slid one hand over to rub at an itch on his temple. "Arms, a-okay. Toes... not bad." 

"Tingling in the legs, huh?" Ellie didn't look up, so she missed the sudden traded glances behind her - indication of a _new_ concern. When her father failed to reply fast enough, she dropped all subtlety. "Even numbness? This is no time to play it brave, Dad. It can't be what you think it is. You took a blow to the lower spine. Your legs _should_ be tingling - a _lot._ The symptoms of an _episode_ don't develop that fast." 

He sighed. "Fine; you wrenched it out of me. They feel like they've fallen asleep and are only just thinking about waking up. Talk about keeping me on pins and needles. So, what's the prognosis, Doc?" 

"Your spinal cord is intact." Ellie left no doubt of this. The tension in the room instantly dropped several atmospheres. "Otherwise there'd be no sensation at all below the waist. There is, however, heavy internal bleeding. That's what's putting pressure on the nerves." She drew a slow breath, trying to keep things professional on her end at least. "You shouldn't have any lasting injury, Dad - if we can get you to an operating theater soon." 

"Well, that's a place I'm just _dying_ to visit! I'd say we should get this show on the road again. Can I get up now?" 

"I didn't say you could walk around!" she exclaimed, caught between fear and exasperation. 

"Can we move him?" Ron interrupted. "He's too close to the silo's access hatch. Once we get the top open, you can bet the SEALs will be down in a rush." 

Ellie hesitated. "If we're _very_ careful." 

"On one condition," Bartlet interposed. "I want to be face-up. The décor of this _deck_ leaves something to be desired." He grinned at his alliteration. Eyes rolled above him, less amused. "Besides, it doesn't help my image when I'm trying to give orders." 

Leo came close to cracking a smile himself this time. "What a short-term memory. You _can't_ give orders." 

"Can't blame a guy for trying..." 

The move could have been scripted for a video to show med students precisely how it should be done. The men all shed their blazers and built a well-cushioned nest at the base of one bulkhead, not too far removed yet well out of immediate harm's way. Under Ellie's direction, the octet then worked together like a well-drilled team: one supporting the President's head, one his feet, and the rest very slowly rolling and lifting with joined hands. They minced across the floor mere inches at a time, striving not to jostle their burden in the slightest. 

The Man displayed not the slightest hint of concern for himself - even though it can be disconcerting to be carried, to trust so totally that others will not let you fall. He fought to hide any discomfort, too... but there he had rather less success. Between the panel hitting him from behind and the floor smacking him up front, he must have been a fine collection of aches indeed. His best efforts at stoicism couldn't prevent an occasional wince and more than one gasp, no matter how careful his transporters tried to be. 

As might be expected, Bartlet could bear his own anguish far better than he could endure the guilt others felt at causing that anguish. Covering it up was essential, for _their_ sakes. He set his teeth, clasped his hands across his chest and made a show of enjoying the ride. "Wow. Smooth. No sedan chair can beat this." 

From his position near the right shoulder, a perfect metaphor of his _administrative_ role, Leo wore a familiar expression of tried patience. "We're _not_ making a habit of it." 

That was as much a prayer as anything else. 

Ellie arranged the improvised bed with great precision, making sure that extra folds of material would keep body mass off the lower spine. The men lowered their leader by almost infinitesimal degrees so that she could get it exactly right. 

Eight people carrying one average person would not feel a great _individual_ strain, but their efforts to move so gradually still required effort, and it showed. Bartlet managed to smile and look embarrassed at the same time. "Hey, no cracks about my weight from anyone!" 

At last he had been placed and his bearers drew away. He did his best to glance around in an air of idle ease. "Ah, the lap of luxury." 

The fact that he was breathing harder and sweating more than anyone else did not go unnoticed. By now inflammation toxins were coursing through his muscles, especially around his back and ribs, which protested any motion - including respiration. 

"Do _not_ move," Ellie ordered, and _ordered_ was the most accurate term. She stole his handkerchief and tucked it carefully against the small yet still-bleeding gash near his waist. "I'm staying right here. And if you experience any trouble breathing, or thinking clearly, or if the pain in your back gets worse, for God's sake _say_ so!" 

"All right, already! I promise to behave." Her father lay still and watched her fuss over him a bit more. Then she reached for the two white blazers belonging to Hyde and Lung, which she'd set aside from the padded bed, and spread them carefully over his torso. "Boy, I'm really gift-wrapped!" 

"Yeah, right. We all know how much you love the cooler weather, but this is no time to go into shock. I doubt the heat's on; and even if it were, the deck can't be _that_ warm. Besides, adrenaline burns off quickly." 

Finished at last, Ellie sat back on her heels and just looked at him. The firm, steady posture of a trained medic began to slip away. Suddenly, she had nothing more to do. And with that abrupt knowledge, the helplessness and the insecurity of a child watching a parent suffer crept forward to engulf her. 

"Hey." The President lifted one arm with no difficulty, and reached for her hand, giving it a warm squeeze. "You did great." 

She smiled, bravely blinking back tears. 

He did not let go. His blue eyes rose to the men silently gathered around him. "And so did the rest of you. Now, it's time for your long-overdue reward. Open that hatch!" 


	11. All Things Being Equal 11

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

U.S.S. HOUSTON  
FIFTY MILES OFF THE COAST OF LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK 

Fitzwallace stood at attention on the deck of the "Houston" and watched the Sikorsky Hercules helicopter draw near. Curiously, it did not approach from the west, the shortest distance to the now-barely-visible shore, but from due south. There is no straight line between two points when there's a hot spot in between. 

The large black whirlybird settled upon its pad - creating a nearly matched pair of military choppers on the ship's stern, side by side. 'Marine One' sat only yards away, its proud legend and Great Seal in glaring evidence. 

As the rotors powered down, the escorting Marines unbuckled and disembarked. Like most helicopters in active military service, this craft had no doors and almost no side walls to slow down the movement of personnel. That made for much more rapid deployment and evacuation, but also for a rather blustery ride by comparison to 'Marine One's' enclosing armor. 

The First Lady looked quite wind-blown as a result, but did not falter as she was handed down. She descended with grace and walked steadily forward, straight to the Chairman. She still wore her bright yellow suit, a single point of brilliance against all the battleship gray - and against the majority of khaki uniforms, including the Admiral's own new choice of attire. 

"Right this way, Mrs. Bartlet," he shouted over the engine's persistent chatter, guiding her towards the nearest door. 

She cast only one glance, in passing, towards the other helicopter present... the one her husband and daughter had last used. 

She stopped for a much longer look at the reason why her transportation had swung in a wide arc east before its final approach. Three ships sailed together some five hundred yards off the starboard aft quarter: a pair of tugboats with their trademark oversized bow structure... and a black, cigar-shaped tube with an imposing vertical tower at a pronounced, unnatural tilt. Another black helicopter hovered just above the waves near the bow, as motionless as possible, waiting for whatever new events might develop. 

She said nothing, although her tightly-schooled expression became even more tense. This was the first time she'd beheld the sight for real, not on TV or in a photo. _That's_ where they were... 

Fitz did not comment, either; no words would suffice. He waited in polite and fully sympathetic silence for perhaps half a minute, until she could bring herself to turn from that horrifying sight and follow him. 

Would this be the closest she came to her two missing family members ever again? 

Like submarines, a surface ship is very conservative with its storage space. Unlike subs, a ship tends to have brighter interior lighting, and no sub has _natural_ lighting. The large chamber Fitz headed for boasted large windows on all sides. 

"This is the bridge. May I present Captain Ojeeb, skipper of the 'Houston', and Colonel Morino, the physician assigned to the President's party today." 

Only these two officers had lined up to be introduced. The rest of the crew bustled about with their individual duties. This was a ship on red alert. 

"Mrs. Bartlet." The CO, a thin man with raven hair and dignified Amerindian features, wearing the same khaki service dress as the rest of his officers, bowed his head. "If there's the least little thing you need while you're here, please ask. The services of the 'USS Houston' are at your complete disposal." 

Abbey sized him up, her public face once again in place. She was probably the only woman, beyond a doubt the only civilian, and without question the shortest person on board, yet at first glance she did not appear uncomfortable in the least. "Thank you, Captain." However, no one could expect her not to acknowledge the purpose behind their joint mission here. "I think a rescued submarine will suit me perfectly right now." 

"That is the plan, ma'am. I'll leave you in the Admiral's good hands." With a courteous nod to them both, Ojeeb left. He had to oversee the operations of the entire fleet. 

Morino stepped forward. At least his darker brown Army uniform stood out less obviously now. "Mrs. Bartlet, I need to speak with you -" 

"Oh, I'm sure you do." She appraised him coolly. "But either we'll have lots of time to chat during the next few hours, or else we won't have to talk about it at all. Let me get the overview first, before it becomes academically moot." 

"Of course, ma'am." That had been very nearly a brush-off. Surely she didn't blame him for being here while her husband and daughter were not? Of course, she of all people was entitled to be upset right now, especially while waiting for answers she knew she wouldn't like. 

"Over here, please." Fitz indicated a table well to one side, with charts and diagrams, where a Chief Petty Officer stood guard. "This is Chief Tolkinski of the 'Callanan'." 

Like the Chairman, Tolkinski had changed into something more functional; in his case, the cotton and denim service blues of enlisted sailors. There had been plenty of time during the cruise, and plenty of incentive. This was no longer ceremonial; this was an _alert._ When you're dressed comfortably, you work better. 

The Chairman launched into explanations at once, not waiting for the inevitable questions. "The Navy SEALs are working their way past the damaged bow hatch. They're a fully-equipped special operations team, and they've trained for rescues like this. In fact they trained specifically for modified boats like the 'Callanan' and its resources. They arrived with their own chopper: the one in the air right now. That means we now have three on hand, which is one piece of good news. 'Marine One' is just not geared towards this kind of work." 

Abbey nodded once, jerkily. "I can see why. Go on." 

His audience could tell how hard he found it to do so. This was the First Lady of the United States, the wife of one prisoner on that doomed sub and the mother of a second. How could anybody be expected to even contemplate such awful mechanics, much less detail them to her? 

She rose to the unintended challenge of his hesitation. "I want it straight." 

Slowly, he exhaled. "One way or another, we're going to have to scuttle that boat. The only question is when. Please God, it won't be before every last person is off. We still have some forty miles to go before we're over really safe waters. At the current average towing speed of eight to nine knots, that's over four hours away." 

Like him, she sealed off her emotions and took refuge in cold figures. "This is assuming the sub doesn't decide to explode first." Deliberately she faced the very worst. "What happens if it does?" 

Fitz bit off each word flatly, as though lives were _never_ in the balance. "The 'Houston' is armed with Harpoon missiles. They're designed to take out surface ships, and 'Navy One' is still on the surface. These things make _really_ big holes. Now the boat has a titanium hull, but that's added protection against torpedoes; it won't stand up to a missile like this. Military logistics: break the boat's back, and she'll go down in seconds." 

Abbey studied the blueprints to the sub, her face giving nothing away. Someone had thoughtfully marked the only two protected compartments. "So you aim for the areas where any survivors have to be, right? They're conveniently central, and one of them is below the waterline." Her voice dropped. "A merciful form of execution." 

The Admiral could keep up this pretense only so long. "Yes... it would be." He paused. "Except that we can't do it." 

She lifted her head, apprehension gathering anew. "Why not?" 

"Because shooting at that boat might produce just the kind of explosion we want to avoid at all costs. _All_ costs." 

Silence. 

"I see." Abbey took several moments just to breathe. "So - alternatives?" 

"We could send in a SEAL to pull the terminal plug. Access to the Conn is relatively direct and radiation levels aren't so high there that he won't last for the few minutes needed." From the grimness in his tone and the shadows in his eyes, Fitz didn't care for this option either. 

She started shaking her head at once. "We discussed this before. There has to be a better way than ordering someone to do a job that will kill them. Of course the result of nuclear fallout would be even more horrible, on a much larger scale - but to just command a person to become a living sacrifice like that? Is there _no_ other way?" 

"There is." He bent over the schematics; this also spared him the need to meet her gaze while he spoke. "The only safe and sure method - for everyone else, if not for anyone still inside the boat itself - is to plant mines along the hull in strategic places: on all the ballast and trim tanks, and away from the reactor and the torpedo bays. It will have the same effect as scuttling her from the inside, and it won't jar anything already unstable. The 'Callanan' will sink very fast, and sink intact. The threat of the reactor _and_ the torpedoes will be neutralized at once." 

This time he stopped completely, one hand supporting his lean over the table, fingers of the other hand on the blueprints, and did not move for several heartbeats. His head remained bowed. The spectacles hid his eyes. 

Any serving member would have noticed his switch from "Navy One", which was the proper title for that sub at the moment, when he referred to potential future events. Of course, the moment the President disembarked \- or died - that honorary title would no longer apply. The Admiral might well have used the boat's actual name as a sign that he believed, and certainly hoped, that the "Houston" would be hosting their Commander-in-Chief before too much longer. 

"I'm waiting." Abbey leaned on the table as well, visibly bracing herself. There had to be a down side to this plan as well. 

At last Fitz straightened. "Well, then we're left with two possible scenarios." Again his voice became detached, as though reporting upon events from a millennium ago. Detachment for himself - he was personally fond of several of those people on board the "Callanan", not the least of which was the President of the United States - and detachment for the First Lady standing right in front of him. "The first one is if we're in relatively shallow water, like now. She'll hit bottom more or less in one piece, but she'll be a total wreck. Any rescue will be impossible." His tone deepened with import. "This means that anyone who happens to survive the descent will either drown as water forces its way in... or suffocate as the air fouls and the oxygen runs out. There's no telling how long they might linger, with injuries. Probably hours, possibly days." 

Somehow, Abbey managed to hold herself still throughout this exhortation. 

"Scenario number two, please." She didn't let the slightest emotion leak out. If her shell cracked even a tiny bit now, it would shatter beyond all saving. 

"That's if we get beyond the continental shelf in time. It's a _huge_ drop-off. The deeper the 'Callanan' sinks, the worse the underwater pressures will become, until finally she just - implodes. All in an instant." Pause. "Anyone on board won't even have time to feel it before they're... killed." He stumbled searching for the correct, least offensive word to describe what would happen. "There'd be no wreckage to find... no tombstone to mark the spot." 

Silence. Even the background activity required to run the "Houston" seemed muted, and no crew member came anywhere near them. 

"I understand," Abbey whispered at last. Again she wrapped both arms around herself, as if wishing for much heavier body armor. "Obviously the second option would be the lesser of these two evils... but what you're saying is that you've got no choice but to risk condemning the President - and everyone with him - to a slow and painful death instead." 

How she even got that sentence out, no one could guess. She, too, had to distance herself from the uncompromising reality. 

It would be bad enough - hideously bad - to plan on killing your national leader (or anyone else, for that matter) because you had no other option for the sake of the world... but to kill him by inches? Yet the ever-present danger of radioactive contamination in the global atmosphere was far too great. It meant the lives of ten people balanced against the lives of millions. Who those people were could not be _allowed_ to matter. 

"Ma'am... there is one tiny consolation in all of this." 

She almost snorted in disbelief. "I doubt that, but let's hear it anyway." 

"When the time comes, we'll know what the water depth is. We'll know what will happen to the boat. Which means that we won't be left wondering what will happen to _them._ " 

Yes, at least they would be able to accurately predict the fate of the vessel and her unwilling crew. Better than not knowing at all. 

"In any event," Fitz went on, slowly, "Hotspur has already planted the mines on the boat's hull." 

Abbey stiffened this time. Her head yanked around, her eyes flying to the nearest window and the nightmare flotilla beyond. That sub was _already wired?_

"That had to be our first priority - even before getting the prisoners out. We couldn't even stop the tow; the SEALs were forced to work against the current. But she's... ready to go." 

He waited until the First Lady turned, her fear more evident now than ever. 

"I knew from the start that this would have to be." 

He drew a deceptively small electronic triggering device from one pocket. 

"They're all programmed to blow together," he said very quietly. "If anyone has to push this button... it will be me." 

In essence, the "Callanan" had been strapped into the electric chair, awaiting her inevitable termination... and the hand of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was on the switch. 

It was the final decision any leader prays never to have to face - but one that Fitzwallace had the strength of soul to make, for the sake of others. 

And Abbey Bartlet would be right there, watching helplessly when he made it. 

THE WEST WING 

"C.J.! C.J.!" 

When one considers that any government is founded upon politics, and politics are shaped by news, and news is the barometer of public information, and public information leads to public opinion, and public opinion _defines_ government, then it only made sense that every private office in the White House and many general areas besides had at least one TV constantly tuned to a major news station. 

Not even the reception area outside the Oval Office itself was immune from the lure of having ready access to breaking headlines. Unlike many of his predecessors, this particular President did not like his private workspace invaded by electronics; if he wanted to catch the latest broadcast, he stepped outside. 

However, _this_ set usually remained more often off than on... except when a huge bit of news was in the making. Like today. Debbie Fiderer worked steadily away at her desk, organizing the countless little items that contributed to the smooth running of an entire federal government branch. It never stopped, even when the President was not present - or when the President was at risk. Still, she could not have failed to hear every word of the broadcast. 

C.J. stood behind the podium, locked down and unemotional. Now that the fleet had disappeared beyond the horizon, she was the sole source of information available - to the press and to the world. "Save your voices. I'm giving you all I can." 

Debbie kept her attention on her paperwork. Humans had lost the ability long ago to swivel their ears so as to triangulate sound or to reflect emotion, but she still breathed a subtle vigilance for any new data from this live briefing. 

"As of the last report I received two minutes ago, the 'Callanan' was still afloat. The tow is progressing, and the no-fly zone remains in effect." 

The phone rang. Debbie checked the call display pad, then reached over and transferred this call at once. She didn't have time for any but the most critical conversations. 

"Does no one have _any_ idea what caused all this?" 

Margaret hurried in and handed over a binder without a word. Debbie nodded her thanks. These two knew better than to discuss events; not with both of their bosses missing and directly involved... and in peril of their very lives. Even the normally irrepressible secretary to the White House Chief of Staff had virtually lost her voice. Her features carefully reined in, much like everyone else around, she hurried back out. 

"I can't give you technological details, because I haven't got them. I don't know if the Navy does yet, either - and maybe they never will, since they can't get at the reactor to examine it. All I've been told is that something obviously went wrong." That statement didn't tell anyone a thing, but C.J. simply had no more for them. 

The phone rang again. Debbie transferred that one as well. The number of people who possessed this direct number was surprising. 

"C.J., exactly how much of a meltdown risk are we talking about?" 

A White House intern entered, carrying a note. Debbie accepted it and extended a paper from her own desk in turn. The intern took it and left promptly. 

"We've been over this before, people. Yes, there is a very real chance that the 'Callanan' will explode. If that happens while she's on the surface, the radiation from her reactor will contaminate the atmosphere for miles around and for years to come. That _has_ to be prevented, any way we can." 

Another intern arrived, bearing a stack of files. Debbie waved the young man towards the appropriate cabinet. Neither of them needed to speak, or showed any interest in speaking. It was as though the entire West Wing had adopted its own "silent running" protocol. 

"You mean by deliberately sinking it." 

Nancy was the next to turn up, bearing several message slips: the phone calls that had been forwarded to her. Debbie placed them on her desk, opened up a ledger and started recording the senders and times. Later would be a far less hectic time to reply to them, and more information would be available as well - good _or_ bad. 

"There really is no other option. The water will neutralize the radiation. As soon as the President's party has been airlifted to safety, the sub will be scuttled. I have here at least some of the particulars on exactly how they plan to do that..." 

The phone rang again, even before Nancy could leave. Debbie glanced at the display, again failed to recognize the number, rolled her eyes and reached for the transfer toggle. Nancy needed no more cue to rush back to her desk and receive it. 

"But - what if the military can't get the captives out in time?" 

This time Debbie looked directly at the screen. 

"The U.S. Navy SEALs are the best in the business. You can bet they'll accomplish what no one else could hope to do." 

Debbie's usually morose expression slid down the "gloomy" scale another inch. She made a sincere effort to return to her tasks. 

"But if they can't - if they have to sink the sub with people on board - C.J., that'll be _murder._ " 

Debbie flinched, yet kept her vision down. Since she couldn't do anything herself to help this mess, the best way to get through it was to _work_ through it. 

C.J. took much longer to answer, and the cameras all closed in on her face. She had been placed in the truly appalling position of reporting, coherently and precisely, how someone was going to die. Much less her national leader... much less her boss. Much less her personal friend. _Much less_ a father figure in her life. 

"Yes." 

Debbie _had_ to look up again. 

C.J. held herself so still, every muscle in her body must have ached. "We're talking about the potential murder of the President of the United States." 

Debbie's gaze wandered sideways, towards the open door of the empty Oval Office. 

"And the daughter of the President." This was a roll call of the possible casualty list. "The White House Chief of Staff. The White House Communications Director. The personal aide to the President." 

Debbie turned to the vacant desk across from her own. 

"Two Secret Service agents." These were the people the public rarely noticed and didn't really care about. However, they merited recognition no less than their famous protectees. "Two naval officers. And a civilian reporter." 

Debbie gazed down at her papers, but this time she didn't fly back into the work at once. The depression had become stifling. 

"Ten people are trapped inside that ticking time bomb. Each of them has their own circle of family and friends. Each of them deserves to be rescued." 

The phone rang again, this time from a source with sufficient clearance. Debbie picked up the receiver. "Oval Office." 

C.J. paused for breath and self-control. The Press Room was silent, anxiously awaiting her next words. "In the other corner... is the environmental health of the entire world." 

Imagine the public reaction to this unvarnished, _official_ acknowledgment that their elected leader was being taken away to die. In fact, to be _killed_ \- and by his own Navy to boot. And his closest advisors were in full agreement with this decision... because if they didn't, millions of others would suffer instead. 

Debbie tucked the receiver under her chin, obtained a notepad and started writing. Like all West Wing employees, she had learned very fast how to divide her attention. "Uh-huh. Right. Understood." 

C.J. caught a hand signal from the side of the room: Carol's. "And now, everyone, the Vice President of the United States." 

That snagged Debbie's attention afresh. "One moment, please," she said to the other party on the line, then lowered the receiver and refocused on the TV. 

C.J. stepped aside, and in a battery of camera flashes John Hoynes took her place. 

He cleared his throat. "Let me make one thing clear to you all. We have _not_ given up on rescuing the President. I'm here purely as an advisor. I'll answer any questions I can..." 

The clock on Debbie's desk was digital; it didn't tick. However, every second it counted off still seemed audible... and ominous. 

THE SITUATION ROOM 

"I'm sure glad that's over. This is no time for politics." Hoynes strode in to rejoin the Joint Chiefs. "Back to business. I wasn't being facetious earlier: how certain can we be that this nuclear crisis is _not_ sabotage?" 

Nancy frowned. "Nothing's for certain in our business, sir." 

"That's not the answer I want to hear!" 

"But the security around every new ship is formidable. The data from Trident's monitoring computers seem pretty conclusive. And that boat was under some pretty intense surveillance, not only because the President was there but simply because of what it is." 

Hoynes started to pace. "This was a failure of _every_ fail-safe we can build into these ships! What are the odds of that being an _accident?_ " 

"Believe it or not, better than the odds of someone engineering the whole thing. There are just too many factors for one enemy agent to even attempt to control so precisely." 

The Vice President stopped his restless movements, frustration creasing his brow. "You're saying it's just bad luck." 

"It happens. We've all seen examples of that in our lives." 

"I'd feel better with some proof. If we just _knew_ what made the reactor heat up..." 

"The best we have is an educated guess. These boats are pretty well insulated from catastrophic power spikes, but there's always the chance of freak malfunction, an innate component flaw, or just plain human error. This is why a plank cruise is so important: it's supposed to find the flaws and errors before the official crew takes command and the vessel goes to work." 

"And your educated guess is..." 

"Is from more than one nuclear naval architect," Nancy countered, referring to reports spread across the table before her. "Whatever caused the power spike in the first place, that's what led to the radiation flush or wave. The critical reactor spike overrode the safety breakers and sent a current forward, making one of the loaded torpedoes explode." She closed the files wearily. "Beyond that, we're speculating." 

"That's all the elite of the United States Navy can offer?" Hoynes threw his hands into the air. "Speculation like this at a local crime scene would be unacceptable!" 

"The only way to know for sure is to examine the _crime scene_ itself, and that ain't gonna happen." Rarely did the NSA lapse into either slang or sarcasm. "'Navy One' is already over deeper water than any 'unsaturated' diver can negotiate." 

He grimaced. The concept of divers poking through the ruined hulk of the "Callanan" on the ocean floor, swimming past the bodies of people he knew, vastly reduced his desire to pursue that possibility. 

"Okay, I'm with you on this. Unless we get more data later on, that is." 

"If we get more data, sir, then I'm with _you._ " 

Pause. 

"So tell me where we stand right now." 

Nancy turned to the blueprints on the wall. "The mines are all in place; they've been magnetically sealed to the hull. That titanium shielding is built to resist just this sort of trick - but whenever we invent new technology, we also figure out how to beat it. The mines are located at these points." At least a dozen red dots pulsed into life, scattered below the waterline and along the boat's keel, looking like a bad case of measles. "A sub is naturally more buoyant than a surface ship. Still, you take away that buoyancy and it'll sink like a stone." 

Hoynes moved around the table, the set of his shoulders proclaiming that he was braced for the worst. "And then what happens?" 

"Depends upon whether the sub is beyond the shelf or not." 

"If it is?" 

Nancy had been boning up on these facts under the tutelage of Fitzwallace. "Then it's a straight drop to oblivion. These boats are designed for deep water, but nothing like that. The pressure will mount _very_ quickly to intolerable levels on all sides... until one little join finally bursts - by the five-thousand-foot point at the latest. They don't call it the 'crush depth' for nothing. When that happens, everything else follows - at once." 

"And everyone dies quickly." Hoynes had begun to perspire. "And if she's _not_ over the shelf?" 

"Then it'll be a maximum of six hundred feet. That should give her time to achieve a speed of at least twenty knots. She'll still be intact when she hits bottom - but she'll hit _hard._ Then the water sweeping down in the vortex of the boat's wake will smash into her from above at the same speed, slamming her between the irresistible force and the immovable object." Nancy didn't move, reeling off facts like a computer. "She might retain _some_ structural integrity, but there's no telling what will happen to her passengers; they don't have seat belts or crash helmets." Here, finally, she did pause, unable to pass off the human angle any longer. "And whatever does remain of the sub's main hull won't be compatible with any rescue sub." 

Hoynes got the idea. "And anyone who does survive past that stage dies _very_ slowly." He started pacing again. "This is assuming, of course, that there are survivors there right now, and we're not spending our time and efforts trying to break into a mausoleum." He closed his eyes against that mental picture. "What about the SEALs themselves?" 

"They're all suited up - but not for a _saturation_ dive; there was nowhere near enough time to prep for that. Six hundred is way too deep. Their only hope is if they're close enough to the outer hull to get clear, _fast._ " 

"God, it's a suicide mission. And none of this even mentions the fact that if they _can't_ sink the sub fast enough, they'll get the radioactive explosion first." The Vice President shook his head in wonder at such dedication. "And the tug crews?" 

"They're Navy personnel. They've all worked the nuclear vessel shipyards for years. They know the risks. And you can bet that they have hands on deck every minute, ready to cast off the tow lines when the boat goes down." 

A strained silence settled around them. 

"I'd like to propose something." 

"Of course, sir." The NSA looked interested. Any new thoughts might lead to new alternatives. They'd just about exhausted the _old_ concepts. 

Hoynes spoke slowly, measuring each word. "If we do have to scuttle 'Navy One' in shallow water, with the rescue incomplete... there is one mercy we can still offer any potential survivors. I propose that we send another sub out at once - and destroy her completely." 

The silence returned, thicker than ever. 

Nancy did not look all that surprised; perhaps this option had already crossed her mind. "Rather than abandon them to their fate." 

The silence developed a solid mass, like a smothering blanket... 

She nodded slowly. "I concur." 

"This is Chief Tolkinski on the 'USS Houston', calling the White House!" a strange voice suddenly squawked. It came from the speakerphone on the conference table: the constant open link to the fleet. Every person present started. 

Nancy took the initiative. "This is McNally. Go ahead, Chief. Are you with Fitzwallace?" 

"Yes, and we've got good news!" 

_Good_ news? Could that even be possible? 

This had to be a fairly young sailor; his tone shook with excitement. "'Navy One' just popped a silo hatch!" 

"She _what?_ " Hoynes didn't look like he couldn't understand; he looked like he couldn't believe it. 

"Yes, sir! We've got a confirmed emergency hatch blow - one of the ASDS forward silos. They're designed for special SEAL maneuvers. And they can't be forced from the outer deck. The only way this hatch could open is if someone triggered it from the _inside!_ " 

"My God..." He started to grin, finally daring to nurture genuine hope. 

"That means there _are_ survivors." Nancy began to smile as well. "In missile control." 

"Yes, ma'am! They've given us a perfect way to get everyone out at once! Hotspur is converging even as we speak!" 

Hoynes was thinking furiously. "At least one of the survivors must be crew, in order to pull this off." 

Now for the big question - what about the _others?_


	12. All Things Being Equal 12

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

NAVY ONE 

"Clear to descend?" a voice shouted down from the silo's top. 

"Clear!" came the immediate reply from the bottom. 

A midnight-black figure scurried down the ladder, dropped the last few feet with a resounding _thump,_ and practically burst through the open access hatch into Sherwood Forest. 

Eight men stood in a rough semi-circle, waiting. 

The newcomer was an apparition: in a streamlined ebony wet-suit with evident body armor, helmet and goggles on his head, air tanks on his back, tools and weapons on his belt. You could tell at once that he knew how to work in the most hostile conditions. 

He went straight to the ranking officer, the one naturally in charge. "Lieutenant Jeffries, sir. Permission to come aboard?" 

Navy protocol is a precisely regulated, almost cloying method of communication. No matter what the crisis, the niceties have to be observed. 

"Captain Hyde, 'USS Callanan'." Hyde returned his salute. "Permission granted, Lieutenant, and we're mighty glad you made it." 

The SEAL grinned. Against that solid darkness, his teeth gleamed. "Thanks for opening the door, sir. Couldn't have done it without you. Is the compartment secure?" 

"Yes, and we're all present. Just one casualty." 

"Very good to hear, sir! Until now we had no way of knowing if _any_ of you had survived." 

Jeffries was already taking in everything: the lack of any visible injuries on the captives before him, the absence of apparent damage to the sub's interior. There was no smoke or water or purple radioactive haze in sight - nothing to suggest an immediate danger. All eight men were in shirtsleeves and ties, one also with suspenders; they seemed almost ludicrously neat and formal considering the lethal threat and the overwhelming odds they'd faced. The mocha skin of the two youngest stood out vividly against their pale shirts. The two naval officers wore summer white uniform trousers and shoes. The two who _had_ to be Secret Service sported glaringly obvious shoulder holsters with heavy-caliber automatic pistols. 

Three further elements stood out, contradicting what anyone would naturally expect. None of the eight looked as overjoyed as they should have at their sudden rescue. 

There were supposed to be _ten_ people here, one of them a young woman. 

And the one face that Jeffries could be guaranteed to recognize - was missing. The one that _everybody_ worried about the most. 

But Hyde had said they were all accounted for... so where... 

"We have a wrinkle." The boat's skipper nodded sideways. The gathered ranks parted. 

Eleanor knelt beside what, at first glance, honestly looked like just a lopsided heap of men's blazers, most either black or navy. But then one corner of that heap exhibited a smile - and everything snapped into perspective. 

"Welcome to the party." Who else besides Jed Bartlet could recline upon a makeshift bed of suit jackets, be draped by two more, on the floor of a sinking and burning submarine, in pain he just could not disguise, and still act totally normal? "Bring down one more of your pals and we can get three games of bridge going at the same time!" 

He sounded quite lucid and quite calm. The anxiety on his daughter's face, however, somewhat neutralized his attempt to eliminate all concern. 

"Mr. President." Jeffries was military elite; he stood at attention and gave nothing away. "May I ask what happened, sir?" 

"Oh, I picked a fight with a piece of ceiling." The Man affected a shrug with his eyebrows alone. Moving his shoulders had too high a price tag by this point. "And lost." 

Ron stepped to the fore. Hyde might be in command of this boat, condemned or otherwise, but _he_ had final say on the President's security and movements. "Special Agent Ron Butterfield." His now-unconcealed firearm made that obvious, yet the announcement still had lots of impact. "There's a risk of spinal damage. We need a backboard." 

"Yes, sir." The SEAL made that their first priority. After he spread the more cheerful piece of news, of course - news the entire world was frantically awaiting. He hurried back to the silo, stuck his head inside and yelled upward, "TEN SURVIVORS!" 

"Ten survivors, aye!" a brisk confirmation echoed from the external deck. There is a very old, very ingrained Navy practice to repeat every order - just to be sure it's carried out correctly, with the proper chain of command acknowledged. Oddly enough, an order can be repeated three or four times aboard ship before it reaches the intended destination. 

Those same survivors heard a few distant cheers echo down that metallic cylinder as well. Even deadly efficient combat specialists are human, and capable of feeling relief. 

"Contact 'Houston'; one casualty to airlift out!" 

"One airlift casualty, aye!" These were still professionals; they didn't ask for time-consuming and unnecessary details such as how - or whom. 

"And put some cutters to work on the hinges up there! We don't want that hatch to interfere with anything. Burn it off and toss it overboard!" 

"Burn off the hinges, aye!" 

Jeffries about-faced. "The silo mouth should be wide enough, sir; it's designed for this sort of thing. We'll strap him in and hoist him up in short order." 

"Sounds like fun," Bartlet muttered, his eyes getting wide again. Ellie's hand on his arm tightened a bit, offering what comfort she could. This would not be pleasant for him come what may, especially when tied down and unable even to struggle. In fact, the protective bindings on any kind of spine-board, essential for his health and safety, would set even the most latent claustrophobia to screaming. 

"What if it's _not_ wide enough?" Leo demanded. 

"Then we angle the rescue basket's foot down as much as necessary." Jeffries showed the same coolly practical approach now that Hyde had earlier. "Even if that ends up exacerbating his injuries, it beats dying here." 

"I like how everyone's asking _my_ opinion," the President pretended to complain. People referred to him in the third person in his presence all the time; sometimes respect demanded it. But he never liked being discussed as though he weren't even there. 

"You've got a better idea?" Ellie challenged, just a hint of playfulness mixed in with her worry. "Now's the time. Besides," and here she leaned closer, lowering her voice, "I bet you're ready to go through almost anything just to get _out._ " 

He exhaled, his humor slipping. "That's not far off the mark." This exhalation made him wince anew; the passage of time was only adding to the perpetual ache through his entire body. He wanted out of here for more reasons than one. 

Hyde shifted on his feet, as though measuring the deck's list some more. "What's happening topside? Where are we?" 

"Roughly sixty miles off Long Island, sir," Jeffries guessed. "Heading southeast at about ten knots." 

"That far that fast?" The Commander was impressed. 

"Yes, sir. Those tugs have got the stuff. However, they stopped the tow as soon as your hatch blew. We don't want a heaving deck when we're trying to airlift you _all_ out." 

"Seconded. How long until the chopper gets here?" 

Jeffries peeled a strip of protective rubber off his wristwatch. "Only a few minutes, sir. But that's more than long enough to get the rest of you topside and ready." 

"Right," Ron agreed at once. If he remembered the opposition to that same idea of his earlier, he gave no sign. At least this time he had some backup. "Ellie, you're first." 

"As if!" The First Daughter positively glared, and did not shift from her spot by one thin inch. She might have been seen as the least confrontational of the Bartlet clan, generally speaking, but she had no problem standing up to this most frightening of bodyguards for the right to remain with her father. Being the other official protectee - and the only female - made no difference. 

"I'm not kidding." Ron never welcomed challenges to his orders, from anyone, for any reason. "You _all_ have to go _now._ " 

"Oh, but _you're_ staying?" Leo had girded himself for war as well. 

"I have some SEAL training of my own. I'm the only practical choice." Storm clouds gathered around the Special Agent's brow, a rare sight indeed and a sure-fire danger sign. "The rest of you can't do anything to help. Accept it." 

Toby pocketed his hands again, and his volume dropped as it usually did when he was at his most immovable. The backward angle to his head effected the impression of him glowering down from an unassailable height. "We go _with_ him, or not at all." 

These oaths of allegiance seemed strangely proliferate today... 

"You will _not_ be able to help him, and you _will_ be in the way. Getting all of you out first will _increase_ the odds of the President's survival, and we need every percentage point there is to pull this off. In fact, your evacuation is the _only_ way to increase those odds. Every additional person who stays behind will _reduce_ his chances! You'd be endangering him yourselves!" This was an almost unheard-of instance: Ron Butterfield speaking with exclamation points and animated emphasis. "And every minute we spend debating this does the very same thing!" 

This was the only argument that had the slimmest hope of convincing these people to leave their leader behind... and it still hadn't achieved full success. 

Leo would attack a rabid grizzly barehanded in defense of his boss and friend. "You _will_ need our help, and you damned well -" 

" _Wrong._ I -" 

"TIME OUT!" That resounding bellow ripped through the noise of combat. 

Then Bartlet gasped against the sudden stabbing pain his outburst had caused, which magnetized everyone's attention even more than the volume itself. They all stood frozen, waiting anxiously for him to recover. 

"Cracked rib," Ellie informed him softly. He had just confirmed her earlier tentative diagnosis: the one she hadn't been all that sure of right after the accident, when she'd been more concerned about his back than anything else. 

"I noticed." He gritted his teeth, eyes closed and fighting his own body, as his breathing gradually eased. Then, turning again to the crowd, he made his own pitch. 

"Ron's right. Nobody will accomplish a thing by hanging around - except to make it that much harder for _anyone_ to get out of this alive. I'm asking you all: don't let your loyalty get in the way. I've already added to _your_ risk. I do not want to endanger any of you even more!" 

Without question he would have done almost anything to _impel_ them to leave, so that he wouldn't have to fear for their safety - never mind his own. 

Leo voiced the common thought. "If you think any of us are about to just _abandon_ you here..." 

"You _won't_ be abandoning me. You'll be doing what's best: for me _and_ for yourselves. Anyone who stays here any longer runs the risk of dying as well, and that's something I _will not permit._ Now GO!" 

As usual, this man ranked concern for his people ahead of his own welfare. He always would. 

The most immediate cost of these executive priorities was fresh pain. Loud volume requires air, which expands the lungs, which involves the diaphragm and countless intercostal muscles... of which were in open revolt of their presidential host. He had to close his eyes and lie still again until the latest wave subsided. 

However, even that large-souled quality - his abiding consideration for others - had a hard time making headway against the guilt his people knew they'd carry with them for all time if they left him here. No one moved towards the pathway to freedom. 

"We won't go without you, Dad." His daughter took her turn to speak for them all. "Not going to happen." 

Still battling acute discomfort on all fronts, he turned to her, his heart in his eyes. "Eleanor. I need you to do something for me." 

"Yes?" Did she already guess what he was about to ask? 

"I need you to go first." 

_"No way!"_ She didn't hesitate in the least. 

"I'm asking you - I'm _begging_ you - to do this." He gently yet irresistibly overrode her objections. "I have to know you're safe; that is of paramount importance to me. And you have to contact your mother and sisters. They don't even know that we're both alive." 

"I'm _not_ leaving you -" 

"If you don't, neither will the others." The others, incidentally, had all drawn back or turned away, offering what little privacy they could. "And we'll all die together, just when it's finally possible for all of us to live. You and I are the leaders here. We have to think of _everyone._ We have to set the example." 

"I don't WANT to set any example!" Ellie's voice went right up the scale. She sounded, for the very first time today, like a frightened child. In a strange fashion she hadn't actually _been_ as frightened when the threat was universal, involving all of them. But perversely, now that she and most of the others were out of immediate danger, her father's situation _really_ sank in. Despite all her medical training and application, it never truly had before. 

"Neither of us has that choice, kiddo." Bartlet gripped her hand a bit tighter, as if he would never let go - even though he was, in effect, sending her away. 

She squeezed back, trying to infuse him with some of her own strength as he strove for air. He was exhausted, in rising anguish, but all he wanted was to see all of them - especially his daughter - safe. 

He determinedly wrestled the stoic façade back into place. Hiding his pain would make this a lot easier for everyone. 

Then he looked past her. "Charlie." 

"Sir?" His body man came over at once and knelt on the other side. 

"Go with Ellie. You're released of any duty to my office. I'm committing to your care something far more precious to me." 

The President lifted his free hand - keeping his elbow on the floor, since both ribs _and_ back constricted almost every single move he made. Charlie had to pause before he could take it, and tried to reflect the firm grip. He knew he was accepting a very special commission. Even more than that - he knew that this could all too easily be farewell. 

His boss just smiled, as though he knew beyond any possible doubt that they'll meet again. "Save a place for me upstairs, okay?" 

The young aide struggled to smile. "Sure thing - but it's reserved seating, so you'd better not be late." 

"I won't let you down, Charlie." That sounded suspiciously like a vow. 

He couldn't stop blinking. "You never have, sir." 

"Then I'd better not start now." The Man blinked a bit as well. "Go on, son." 

Judging by Charlie's expression, it tore his heart to obey. But he did. Slowly, he allowed their hands to part. Stood. Walked around, and physically helped Ellie to stand. She was crying silently; he was on the verge of the same. But she didn't resist, won over at last - not by reason, nor by persuasion... but by paternal love. 

They both accepted their required duty. In silence, they looked down one last time... and then turned and walked away, with leaden steps and not a backward glance. 

Bartlet made a point of not watching them depart; his own self-control had its limits. 

"Johnny." 

"Sir?" The reporter came over and knelt, startled by this summons. 

His leader flashed that winning grin. "I'd say you've got a hell of a story, huh?" 

"Well... I haven't been thinking about it all that much, sir." 

"Just tell the truth. And don't sell yourself short in the process. It was great meeting you, and great working with you. You and your equipment really saved the day." The President offered him a handclasp as well. "Don't forget about that new camera, either. I sure haven't." 

DeSoto grinned despite the terrible gravity of the moment. "Yes, _sir._ " 

"All right. Get after those two and keep them company. I'll see you topside in a little while." Bartlet kept smiling, belying any chance that he might not. 

"I'm gonna hold you to that." This young man had really grown in his view of his national leader. Regardless of whatever might happen afterward, he would never forget. 

"You're on." The President accepted this oblique challenge, then nodded as best he could, sending the photographer on his way. 

DeSoto started towards the silo, looking a bit less grief-stricken - and not just because he hadn't known this remarkable man as long as some others. 

Bartlet snatched a few seconds to breathe carefully and channel his flagging strength. 

"Wayne." 

The lieutenant came over and knelt in turn. "Sir." 

This had become a real reception line... the exact opposite of what normally happens at a wedding. In fact, it bore more of a resemblance to a wake. Still, it accomplished what both the instruction of the SEALs and the anger of the Secret Service had failed to do: initiate "Navy One's" evacuation. Besides, that cheerful executive optimism would not be denied. 

"Now I'm not trying to step on your captain's toes, so you might want to clear this with him first. But I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd go with those three youngsters and see them out safely." 

Lung flashed a brief smile at the "youngster" term; he couldn't be any older than Ellie herself. "I'll try to wrangle permission, sir." 

"Thanks." Bartlet was quite serious now. "And thanks also for all your help. You're a good shipmate." 

The junior officer's grin broadened. In naval circles, that was a huge compliment. He returned the warm palm pressure, then rose and started for the exit. The idea of a formal salute apparently never occurred to him... and it wouldn't have fit anyway. In a totally unpredictable fashion, they all _had_ become equals. 

"Toby." 

In quivering, self-castigating silence, the White House Communications Director drew near. His descent to one knee could not have been more solemn if he were in a synagogue... or before a firing squad. 

The President hiked a sardonic eyebrow. "Will you lighten up that merry mug of yours a bit? No wonder everyone's so depressed around here!" 

Toby had to swallow twice. His vision was tortured. "Sir... I'm -" 

" _Don't_ say it." That was pure presidential authority, reinforced by a firm grip on one arm. "You are absolutely not to blame. You don't have one thing to apologize for. Now I want you up that ladder so you can contact the White House before Josh and C.J. have a stroke or something. I want you to keep planning for your future with Andrea and those twins; you've got no idea about the joy and wonder that's waiting for you. _And_ I want you to start working on your next chess strategy, because you and I going to have lots more opportunities to play. _If_ you get going now." 

DeSoto and Lung might have been fooled, but someone who knew Jed Bartlet personally would be all too aware of what he was really doing, no matter how much he joked or insisted that he'd be right along. He was saying goodbye. 

Toby looked into those earnest blue eyes, shot through with pain... looked down in trembling discomfort... and looked up again. He couldn't bring himself to keep up the illusion. 

Even clearing his throat produced barely a whisper. "It's been an honor." 

"Keep up the good work, Toby." That grip on his arm slid down until their hands met and clasped. Firmly - its instigator refused to let a little thing like shrieking muscles deny them this moment. "And say hi to everyone else for me." 

This grouchy senior staffer had never been known to break down before. He came almighty close to it here and now. 

"Thank you, sir." 

That did not refer to the compliment, or to the official permission to leave in safety, or to the personal blessing, or even to the insistence that this extra crisis was not his fault. That referred to the extraordinary gift he'd been given: life itself. 

This time Bartlet jettisoned any attempt to avoid the truth as well. He just offered the best nod he was capable of, his smile lingering, sincere. 

The silence returned. Then Toby rose and, as steadily as any pallbearer, walked towards the silo's open door. 

THE WEST WING 

"The last we heard, the sub is wired and ready." Pause. "Which means she could literally go at any moment." 

Josh paced the length of C.J.'s not-so-spacious office, his cell phone to one ear, his body filled with a frantic energy that had no outlet. 

"Well, since we haven't received an order to prepare Hoynes for a swearing-in, I'm assuming she's still afloat." 

His companions threw him a dark look in perfect unison. Then C.J. returned to her laptop, Will to his notepaper, Donna to her quiet vigilance, and Zoey to her constant fidgeting. 

"Seriously, Sam, what else to you think I can do?" Josh's volume rose. "I've been to the Sit Room door so many times, I'm sure they're ready to shoot me on sight. All we can do is wait for someone down there or on the cruiser itself to think of us and call." 

These four had gathered in relative seclusion, waiting and hoping that someone _would_ think to update them. They had, in essence, no link to the current events at all. 

"Nah, why on earth would they feel the need? This is _only_ the White House!" Josh lowered the phone for a moment and rubbed his ear. "I'd forgotten how shrill Sam can get when he's really pissed." 

Will didn't even glance up from his work on the sofa, where he worked hard to _lose_ himself in his work. "Sorry, Josh; I'm a baritone. I can't promise to do a credible imitation of that shrillness whenever you happen to feel nostalgic." 

"And here I thought you were a man of diverse talents." 

C.J. sighed and abandoned her pretense of actually _working_ at her desk. "If a sinking 'Navy One' won't bring out those talents, nothing will." 

"Guys." Donna's voice was soft. All three staffers turned her way. Standing against one wall, she inclined her head discreetly towards the fifth person in the room. 

Zoey didn't look at any of them, but her fidgeting had increased. She did not share her companions' way of handling the crisis with black humor. Quite the reverse: it only made things harder for her. She just stood there, staring at nothing, never quite still. The others got that cue, and their faces fell in embarrassment. 

Of course, no one else had time now to consider the youngest of the First Daughters - especially not with her father and one of her sisters trapped in the eye of the hurricane, and her mother lingered dangerously close to that same vortex of pending destruction. They merited all the concern, and all the press. This DPOTUS was safe... and, as a result, totally forgotten. She wandered, if not physically then certainly mentally, like a lost ship... or a lost soul. 

Desperation usually strips a person to their core element, their most basic characteristics. Zoey was trying to be strong, to prove herself worthy of the Bartlet name and the Presidential legacy - and to keep hoping to the very last. However, her fear engulfed several deep and complex levels of her entire being: for her father, whom she'd known to be at constant risk for the past four years; for her sister, with whom she hadn't been all that close during those same years yet who had always been a cornerstone of her life; and for her former boyfriend, for whom she still cared a lot even if she wasn't sure anymore just _how._

Then too, Zoey felt at least some hurt that her mother hadn't waited for her before leaving, although she did understand the necessity of that decision... and she felt no small concern there as well, agonizing over the risk factor involved in being on the cruiser itself, so close to that burning fuse... 

All at once she moved, so suddenly that Josh and Donna, the two staffers closest to her just then, jumped back. Oblivious of this, Zoey flung open the office door. The two Secret Service agents outside, hers and Josh's, turned at once. 

So did every other employee around - they all knew who was in that office, and why - but she never even saw them. 

"Anything?" Her voice almost cracked. 

Both bodyguards silently, impassively shook their heads. She groaned aloud and slammed the door shut. 

C.J. did not complain about such violence, although unwelcome in her realm and never before seen in this young woman. They were all near the breaking point. 

Zoey stopped opposite the bank of muted TV sets, each of which showed the same old endless footage, over and over. 

"I am going mad." There was not the slightest hesitation or doubt in her tone. 

Her companions had a fairly good idea how she felt. Right now they were as much in the dark as the rest of the world. 

THE SITUATION ROOM 

_"Ten survivors!"_

This ultra-secure chamber was soundproof; it had to be. Still, the Marines standing guard outside might have heard some of the reaction within its walls. 

"YES!" Hoynes was the first, and also the loudest, but not the only one. Even these ultra-conservative and ultra-reserved flag officers shared at least a broad grin of pure delight. Nancy almost laughed outright. 

"Wait..." Tolkinski's suddenly more subdued voice snagged their attention as a whole, instantly shifting them from joy against all odds to renewed fear of those same deadly odds. Again, frowns deepened and breaths were held... 

"There's a call out for a backboard." 

"Oh, hell." Hoynes had leaped out of his chair in jubilation; now he seized the table's edge in apprehension. "One of them must have a back injury." 

Of the ten people trapped, he knew five. _These_ odds - exactly one in two - were not the most encouraging. 

"Keep talking, Chief," The NSA ordered, her features settling into even grimmer planes than before. 

"Yes, ma'am. 'Houston's' emerg/evac team was on standby; they're scrambling now." 

"The Navy always prepares for the worst," she muttered. "Right now I'm heartily grateful for that pessimistic habit." 

Silence, profound and teeth-clenching, closed in on all sides. 

"He definitely said there were ten survivors." Hoynes was talking to clarify the data, to convince himself, and to fend off that awful silence any way he could. "Is there any chance of an _eleventh_ person on board that we don't know about?" 

If there was... 

"Not likely." It did no one's confidence any good to hear the first note of hesitation in Nancy's voice. "Ten went in, and now we finally know that ten are coming out. Alive, regardless of whatever shape they're in." 

The Vice President refused to jump to _positive_ conclusions. In fact, his trepidation had suddenly intensified. "What about a crewman already below deck? Before the tour even started? Even _more_ than one?" 

Nancy couldn't offer any guarantee; no one could. Now that they finally had a headcount of survivors, suspicion rose as to who those survivors might be - a suspicion that had never occurred to anybody before. There easily could have been other crew members aboard all along, running the boat's systems and having nothing to do with the tour itself. They'd know where to take shelter in a spill, too. Every additional crewman who made it to that compartment meant one less of the presidential party. 

Hoynes had managed to infect the Joint Chiefs with his own escalating uneasiness. 

"Herc Beta is in the air," Tolkinski reported. They could hear the rotors in the background. The Chief had to be on the bridge, which must be well-insulated against such distracting sounds, but it also had doors directly to the outside for egress and a better view. 

"How long would it take to lower a backboard down a missile silo, strap someone into it, and then lift him out?" Whether Hoynes had used "him" for brevity, or feared the worst, or was playing the odds, or just did not give a thought to political correctness, none of his fellows here drew attention to the word choice. 

"No idea. I can think of a lot of factors that would effect the outcome." Nancy glared at the wall projections - the map of operations and the plans for the stricken submarine - as though she could see right through them to the actual events unfolding beyond the horizon. 

Hoynes paced a few lengths along the back of the room, his strides short and choppy and stressed. 

"Damn!" he finally exploded. "Don't they have video cameras on these modern ships?" 

Nancy snorted derisively. "No way - precisely because they _are_ modern ships. Imagine if a tape fell into the wrong hands." 

"Well, I sure wish some rogue sailor had smuggled a camcorder into his bunk. This total lack of a video link is maddening!" 

Who could blame him for not recollecting that there were others quite nearby, every bit as worried, who had even _less_ to go on? 

U.S.S. HOUSTON 

"It's Ellie!" 

Despite the distance, the milling SEALs and the turbulence both in the waves and in the air from helicopter rotors right overhead, the first person out of the "Callanan's" new horizontal door could not be mistaken. No sailor, and no male civilian who had been part of the tour, boasted anything like that long chestnut hair. 

The large binoculars through which Fitzwallace peered so intently did not obscure his grin one bit. Then, after a few seconds, he seemed to remember something. 

"Here, Mrs. Bartlet. You deserve to see her more than I do." He extended the heavy optics towards the petite woman standing beside him. 

She smiled, briefly yet honestly. "It's all right, Admiral. It's your job to know first-hand - and your word's good enough for me." 

He inclined his head, acknowledging her refusal and her joke together. He'd have risked any official complaint about his conduct in handing the only eyepiece he had to a civilian right at the critical moment. Still, knowing that everyone in that sub was alive went a long way towards easing the pervasive fear they'd all lived with for so many hours. This proof that her daughter was not even hurt bolstered Abbey all the more. 

"It was a pretty safe guess that Ellie would be first out, anyway," the First Lady mused, deceptively calm. "Her father wouldn't have it otherwise." 

"Neither would any of the officers." 

"Which I bet she hotly contested." 

"And lost, I'm glad to say." Fitz took another sighting across the waves to be sure nothing else had changed, then rotated from the rail of their narrow exterior walkway back towards the open door to the bridge. "Are there no other binoculars anywhere on this ship?" 

"Looking!" someone called back. 

"By the time they find some for you, you won't need them," the Chairman grumbled. 

"Watch it; I'm counting on you not to miss anything." The words were positive; the tone was not. This mother and wife and doctor would not be able to relax until she knew that _everyone_ was safe. 

"Yes, ma'am. Let me know if you change your mind." Fitz resumed his surveillance. 

He saw how the waiting SEALs handed the First Daughter out and helped her into the waiting whirlybird as fast as they safely could. These guys were pros at evacuation of all kinds in all scenarios; there was no wasted movement regardless of the unceasing ocean swells. 

"All right, here he - _good Lord._ " 

Abbey went rigid. Any effort the Admiral had been making to keep their conversation light was instantly dispelled. Her carefully preserved poise fell away. 

"The second person out -" 

\- Could _only_ be the President. Never mind his own deep-rooted sense of duty, and the even deeper affection he felt for his staff members; Jed Bartlet would be second up that ladder if his own bodyguards had to shove him up. At gunpoint. He'd have no more choice there than Ellie did in being first. 

Fitz lowered his binocs slowly. "It's _Charlie Young._ " 

No one could conceivably mistake the President's personal aide for the President himself, or vice versa. 

But why _wasn't_ it the President? The Secret Service _and_ Hotspur would have followed procedure and insisted that their Commander-in-Chief get out of that sub ASAP. The stability of the entire nation depended upon him doing so. He _had_ to take precedence over everyone else. 

So _why_ wasn't he second? 

Was he _unable_ to climb out? Or was he even _there?_

WHAT HAPPENED? 


	13. All Things Being Equal 13

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

NAVY ONE 

**Below deck...**

"I'm staying." 

"You're not." 

"It's my duty - and my _right!_ " 

"It's not a right; it's a _privilege._ And it doesn't apply here anyway -" 

"It's tradition!" 

"Outdated and overrated." 

"The captain goes down with his ship!" Hyde's volume rose on a par with his annoyance at being contested on something so fundamental. 

"And accomplishes absolutely nothing in the process." Bartlet was perfectly willing to shout back, but quite unable to do so any longer. He settled for quiet insistence instead, yet another of his many areas of proficiency. 

"It's the oldest rule in the book!" Hyde paced, waving his arms. 

"I've read the new edition." Bartlet lay still, hands folded across his chest... as though lying in state even now. 

"At the _very_ least, I should be the _last_ one off!" 

"Then you _will_ go down with her. And I can't allow that." 

"You can't allow -!" Hyde stopped in disbelief. First, because even the President did not have the authority to contest the master of the ship in naval matters... and second, because this President currently did not have the strength to stand, much less stand in his way. 

"It's not as if we don't have enough lifeboats. I know you'd stay without hesitation if you had to. But you _don't_ have to. And I'm not going to let you throw away your life as though it has less value - which it doesn't. So I'm _ordering_ you to get up that ladder!" Now at last the ring of sheer executive power resonated again in Bartlet's voice. Even the pain couldn't dilute it. 

"Time is money, gentlemen," Ron fumed. His attention darted between this debate and the silo, where Lieutenant Jeffries stood watch over the proceeding evacuation. The seconds were flying past... 

Now it was The Man's turn to exhibit disbelief. "Why, Ron, we'll make a politician out of you yet!" 

_"Sir -"_ Some people do not react well to humor in life-and-death situations. Certainly no sane individual would challenge that dangerous rumble. Bartlet wisely turned back to the battle he had some hope of winning. 

"Byron, you've got a higher duty before you now - greater than your duty to this ship or to me." His eyes burned with the conviction of his words. "You have to report to Fitzwallace. You must give him the technical details of what happened here. It's an imperative - _your_ imperative. He needs those details to protect the world from an even bigger mess than there's already been. No one else can provide that information." 

He had to pause, breathing with great care. No one interrupted. Then, "You could spell the difference for _everyone,_ Captain. You've got to go, and you've got to go now." 

Silence, and stillness, and heavy thought. 

Even before Hyde's shoulders slumped, the others knew he had surrendered the contest. There was just too much logic in that last statement. 

Slowly, he drew himself up to full attention. "Mr. President, I thank you for this opportunity to serve with you." 

"And I with you." Even flat on his back, Bartlet gave the impression of a solemn posture himself. "You were the leader and the expert we needed. You kept us alive." 

Hyde opened his mouth, but could not find any more words. At last he settled for a formal salute, which was reflected painfully yet properly. Then he turned on one heel and marched towards his new assignment. 

Ron exhaled, in equal parts relief that the argument had finally ended and frustration that it had taken so long. "Donnie, you're next." 

His fellow bodyguard blinked. "What about -" His eyes flicked discreetly towards the only other evacuee left: the second most powerful man in America. 

The Special Agent in charge nodded. "That's why. We'll need you at the top." 

It was a cryptic message, but anything more obvious would increase the already-guaranteed resistance Ron anticipated in another few moments. For this one they'd need agents both in front and behind, to apply whatever force might ultimately be required. 

Donnie got the idea. "Yes, sir." He wasted no further time. "Mr. President, with your permission?" 

"Like I'm gonna say no." Bartlet started on a casual note, still not letting the least bit of uncertainty or concern for himself show through his guard. Then, more gravely, he added a vital postscript: "Keep Ellie safe." 

The younger agent squared up. "Yes, _sir._ " Then, briskly, he headed for the ladder. Like the rescuers both above and below, he had a job to do: saving as many lives as possible. He couldn't help their principal protectee now, and he accepted that. 

Jeffries stood with one foot in the silo and one out, supervising the evacuation, and ready in case someone slipped on a rung. By the time Donnie arrived at the bottom, Hyde had just reached the top. The sound of the helicopter hovering over the "Callanan's" outer deck filled this metal tube until its walls echoed. 

Hotspur knew the procedure. Everyone had to climb as fast as they could, and waiting for the previous climber to get all the way out would cause significant delay. On the other hand, if something happened at the top - like a fall - it would cascade down onto everyone below, and that narrow cylinder allowed no room to dodge. In an organized evacuation by military personnel, who are drilled for this constantly, the chance of error is naturally reduced. With a maximum six-foot height per person, and allowing for a maneuvering margin of two feet below and two above, that thirty-five-foot silo could handle three people at a time. 

This, however, was a harried rescue, not conducive to perfect discipline. Of these ten submarine prisoners, only two were sailors, and only three others worked out regularly. Still, adrenaline can provide plenty of thrust. As a whole, the evacuees so far had headed up that ladder in short order. 

In any event, the biggest delay was not in the climbing, but in the talking. For anyone who knew politics, that came as no surprise. 

Leo glanced around at the increasingly empty compartment. He still had not taken a single step towards the exit, maintaining his defensive stance right beside the prostrate figure of his Chief Executive. 

"Is it just me, or is it getting cooler in here?" He didn't shiver, and he didn't sound concerned. He _did_ sound like he was trying to distract his fellows from the issue at hand with small talk. 

"It's not you," Ron assured him. "Water is still coming in through the bow, so the fire must be diminishing, and without the environmental controls that was our main source of heat. The temperature of the surrounding ocean is starting to leach in." 

Bartlet scoffed. " _This_ isn't cold! You guys need to spend more time outdoors in some _real_ weather." 

"You need to get off that floor," Leo returned. "It can't be warm either." 

His boss grinned. "But I'm hogging all the coats." Then he shifted gears. "You, on the other hand, need to get out of here before you catch a cold - or worse." 

Leo stood there and gave him _the look_ : not angry, not insulted, not even hurt... just one hundred per cent set in his ways. 

"Your turn, Leo," Ron stressed quietly. He drifted closer by subtle degrees, as though expecting _physical_ opposition to his next move. 

"Not going." As simple as that. The Chief of Staff calmly held his ground, steadfast as any mountain could hope to be. 

Bartlet snarled despite the fire in his chest. "Damn it, Leo, I'm giving you a direct order!" 

His right-hand man did not even respond. Orders meant nothing to him now. This was his friend, not the President. 

"And in another second I'm going to order Ron to conk you on the head and have _you_ airlifted out - by your ankles!" 

Leo flashed a grin; the idea was pretty ludicrous, even though the senior agent looked ready to do just that. "Forget it. I'm here to help." 

"You _can't_ help us!" Ron protested furiously. 

"Oh, yes, I can. You're going to need a _lot_ of help to get the President on that backboard without hurting him even -" 

"The SEALs and I have the proper training. We'll do it. After you're out of our way." That sounded callous, indeed brutal, but Ron had no time for diplomacy. 

The McGarry battle defenses were firmly in place and fully convinced of their rightness. "I'm _in._ For the long haul." 

"Leo -" A new note slipped into Bartlet's voice... a note of fear. Fear that this most loyal of men would end up throwing his life away when he could so easily live. Fear that Bartlet himself would be the direct cause of this dearest friend's death. 

Leo descended to one knee, slowly and deliberately, reducing the distance between their faces to a couple of feet. Each could see every detail of the other's features. 

"Did you actually expect me to leave?" he asked softly. 

The President sighed in both exhaustion and resignation, but he couldn't prevent a soft smile of his own. "Oh, I _knew_ you wouldn't. I was just hoping against hope that common sense would prevail. For once." 

Jeffries had no way to distance himself from this conversation. However, a shout from the silo's top drew his attention. He stepped right into the tube in order to hear better. 

"Herc Beta is on approach," his colleague yelled down. "But she can't come in until Herc Alpha departs!" 

**Topside...**

At the silo's mouth, Donnie, Hyde and several SEALs clustered around. Most of those SEALs were working to slice off the large circular silo hatch with compact acetylene torches. It suddenly came loose; three of them immediately got it rolling on its edge and along the deck, until with a final shove they were able to send it overboard and into the depths. One less complication to an already-complex rescue. 

A few yards up-"hill" from this, the first helicopter still hovered, its skids only inches above the black hull of "Navy One", and Toby was just climbing aboard. 

The four already strapped in - Eleanor, Charlie, DeSoto and Lung - traded anxious glances, but the harsh engine chatter made conversation impossible. The breeze of the open sea, agitated further by two military-issue rotors, whipped through the unprotected seating area, carrying a good bit of salt spray. The ocean swells grew, as though in protest of these powerful manmade forces churning wind and water together. 

Half a hundred yards off, the second chopper hesitated at a much higher altitude. From its belly hung a long rope that ended in a horizontal rescue basket, strap ends and blanket corners waving wildly in this artificial gale. The basket swung well above the waves, still far out of reach of Hotspur members. Herc Beta could not encroach upon Herc Alpha's air space. 

Even further away, the two naval tugboats drifted as well, their towing cables slack. This way the sub wasn't being dragged forward and tossed about while people crawled across her hull and helicopters tried to stay within immediate reach. However, it also meant that now the "Callanan" was making no progress at all towards that select patch of ocean which, hopefully, would soon receive her into its bosom and protect the world from nuclear catastrophe. 

At the three-quarter-mile mark loomed the gray and ominous hulk of the cruiser "Houston", her sharp-cornered superstructure, bristling antenna and lethal deck guns impossible to overlook. But forget the weaponry: on that ship was one little control switch, which would be responsible for sending the "Callanan" down... no matter where she was, and no matter who was still aboard. 

**Below deck...**

"Leo, you're holding up the works!" Ron kept his volume down with an effort. Rather than stressing his self-control, it stressed his growing anger. 

For the first time, Leo showed a hint of indecision. Up until this moment he'd managed to put it off. But now... now he could not possibly convince himself that he wasn't a direct cause for delay in getting the President to safety. His staying _had_ added to Bartlet's danger, just as Ron had insisted from the start. 

Jeffries made the next call. "Get Herc Alpha airborne!" he shouted up the silo. They had to bring in the other helicopter and the basket _now._

Ron caught the SEAL's eye and nodded in agreement. "Okay, Leo. This way you can ride in the _second_ chopper, with the President. Satisfied?" 

**Topside...**

Herc Alpha's departure orders were relayed to the cockpit, and its rotor speed increased even more. Hyde knew what that meant and quickly clambered into his own seat, on the very edge and mere inches from a straight drop. Toby, seated right across from him, turned his head at this mechanical acceleration, felt the start of accent - 

And suddenly, without any warning - and quite possibly without any thought - he unlatched his seat belt and leaped out. 

Hyde saw this at the last instant and made a frantic grab to stop him. And missed. Lung snatched at his captain's shirt and belt, and just managed to prevent the Commander from plunging headlong. They were rising, already high enough for a fall to risk considerable injury. For several seconds, both men's lives depended solely upon the integrity of the Lieutenant's safety harness. 

Toby landed on his feet on the deck, and fell to all fours before he could recover and stand. Everyone else standing about whirled on him, no less astonished than if he'd dropped straight out of heaven. 

"What do you think you're DOING?" Donnie shouted at him. 

"Helping!" the Communications Director retorted, just as loud and just as angry - and, indeed, just as surprised at himself. However, he had an excuse. "You saw what the President did for me! I'm going to be here to help _him!_ " 

There was no point in arguing. Herc Alpha had lifted away, and she would not be coming back - at least not before off-loading her passengers. Herc Beta started to creep closer, lowering the basket by cautious degrees. 

On the departing helicopter, Hyde finally managed - with help from both Lung and DeSoto - to buckle in and breathe more easily. All five exchanged near-frantic expressions. They were leaving their President behind, in the belief that it was for his own sake, to improve his chances for survival... but now they were deserting four other colleagues as well. 

Charlie took Ellie's hand and squeezed it, trying to reassure them both. 

**Below deck...**

"The basket's almost here," Jeffries reported. 

"Leo." This time Ron would brook no refusal. 

The Chief of Staff could tell. "I'll help you load him." It came out as less of a statement and more of a plea. 

" _We'll_ do that. And you have to be up that ladder before the basket comes down. It's going to take up the entire bottom surface of the silo." 

"Then I'll go up after it." 

"Not if you're going to ride in that chopper. You can't have it both ways." 

Leo struggled for one more piece of ammunition to work in his favor - anything - 

"Leo." Bartlet spoke quietly, wearily. He was perspiring again... from the unremitting pain, from the ever-present claustrophobia that discussion about the silo and the airlift wasn't helping, and from the spiritual stress of argument. 

His friend looked down again, eyebrows elevated, expression almost whimsical now. "You'd better not say what I think you're going to say..." 

"I am. And you know I'm right, too." A pause for breath, and for import. "You and I both have an obligation to fulfill here." 

Another pause. Leo looked dreadfully sober now. "To the country." 

The President wasn't smiling, either. "Exactly. And neither of us can fulfill it down here." 

A third pause. "That's blackmail." 

"Damned straight." Now Bartlet _did_ flicker a smile. It vanished almost at once, though. "So is this... but it's also much more." He beckoned his right-hand man even nearer. 

Were both of them flashing back to that moment in the emergency room of George Washington Hospital, mere minutes after the shooting at Rosslyn? 

The comparison had flaws. There, the injured leader of the free world had been surrounded by all the wonders of modern medicine and all the experts of modern healing. Here... 

Bartlet spoke just above a whisper. "I need you... to take care of Abbey and the girls." 

Leo's face went slack and white. 

Ever since he'd awoken on the floor of missile control, The Man had not allowed anyone else to consider the worst-case scenario. Not until this moment. 

He reached for his best friend's hand, and shifted the grip until they held each other by the wrists. Not the handshake of politicians, or of business partners, or even of comrades - but of blood brothers. 

"Promise me." 

No one could demonstrate greater trust in another, than to entrust to that other the welfare of those loved most dearly. 

Leo had no voice left. He could only nod. 

Those famous blue eyes were piercing, binding him to that vow. 

Not even Ron moved to interrupt, no matter how critical time might be. His professional poise never broke... although there might have been an unusual gentleness behind his gaze. 

Bartlet said no more, his vision glimmering from unshed tears. He just released his hold, and gently pushed away. 

As slowly as a mourner, as stiffly as a robot, as reluctantly as a human soul could ever be, the White House Chief of Staff allowed himself to be dismissed. He rose with an effort that went through his muscles straight to his heart, but at last he stood, bowed his head to his leader and friend, and turned and headed towards his own safety. Wearing the empty look of an automaton, devoid of its own life. 

Ron did not rush him; too much force now would undo everything. Still, he walked Leo over personally, prepared for a change of mind at any second. 

Jeffries took over at the access hatch. He, too, knew better than to apply any additional pressure, lest that tip a delicate balance. He just pointed Leo to the ladder, made sure he had a firm grip, and watched carefully as he started his climb. 

**Topside...**

The roar of Herc Beta filled the silo in a swirling cacophony. Cold air blew and shrilled as though the tube had become a gigantic whistle. Icy seawater dripped from the open hatch; the waves were lapping at the "Callanan's" low-riding deck and splashing droplets about. 

Thirty feet is a long ascent. Also, Leo had been through a lot today as well. He was tired, and stressed, he was getting cold and damp, and he wasn't exactly twenty years old. Seeing his friend suffer had wounded Leo in turn. Worrying about his friend's health _and_ position had taxed Leo's mental limits. Plus, while his friend's emotional goodbye had finally made completion of this evacuation possible, it had also sapped the last of Leo's spiritual strength. He moved far more slowly than his fellow escapees had. 

He was leaving Jed Bartlet behind. Quite possibly to die. At the top, two heads were silhouetted against the white circle of sky... exactly like angels at the end of the tunnel of light. That way lay freedom - and a life far better than anything down below... if it could be attained... 

Except that Jed Bartlet couldn't attain it himself. Not yet. 

Just below the lip at last, Leo halted completely. Every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to throw caution and self-preservation to the winds. To stand fast. To forget about orders and duty and technicalities, and be a _friend._ As he always had been in the past. 

"Keep going!" Jeffries shouted up. 

"Come on!" Toby shouted down. He and Donnie crouched low, hands out, ready to assist. 

Leo looked back towards the bottom. He couldn't see Jed Bartlet, but knew he was there... hurt and helpless... abandoned by the man who had sworn he'd _never_ abandon him... 

Thinking that this delay was caused by weariness - or a fear of heights \- Jeffries hurried up the rungs himself. These Special Ops silos had been designed with every contingency in mind; their ladders were just wide enough for two people side by side. He pulled up alongside, half a length below. "Don't stop! You're almost there!" 

He meant that to be encouragement, of course - but right now it was the last thing Leo wanted to hear. Bad enough to be convinced by the President himself that he should leave; being forced out by someone else was the last straw. All at once he couldn't bear the thought of what he was doing - what everyone else wanted him to do. 

"No..." He shifted his grasp, reaching for the rung below. _Going down._

"LEO!" Toby flopped onto his stomach and darted an arm out as far as he could, and just managed to latch onto the uppermost wrist. 

"NO!" Leo made one effort to break that imprisoning hold - to go back and stand by his friend to the last - 

Underneath them all, something shifted. The entire sub seemed to roll, like a man on a waterbed sleepily changing position - not much, yet in eerie silence and irresistible slowness. The list forward became perceptively more acute... 

The flat upper surface of the "Callanan's" black hull, a seemingly endless downhill slope, had been frequently splashed but not quite swamped - until now. Abruptly, within two heartbeats the whole front third of it slipped completely underwater... 

And a large foaming wave surged right _up_ that slope, rushing into the newly-created cavity where no such cavity could exist. The bow was suddenly heading under at a faster rate... and this was one of the two forward-most silos on the boat. 

Toby happened to be facing that way; he saw the wave coming. He had time for one deep breath, and no time to warn anyone else. The frigid water swallowed him up like the maw of death itself. Most of his companions, Donnie included, were swept right off their feet and carried overboard by the charging current. 

**Below deck...**

Standing in the aperture of the silo's access hatch, watching Leo and Jeffries at the top, Ron felt the floor roll as well and leaned into the thick steel frame. 

Before he even paused to wonder what had caused that, he glanced up again - just in time to see the Atlantic Ocean surround the silo's mouth and come pouring down. 

It must have been something like the view from inside a sink drain, when the faucet is cranked wide open. That bright disc abruptly went dark, like a solar eclipse in fast-forward, as the water smothered the aperture in an instant and followed gravity's siren call. It filled the whole pipeline, engulfing the two human flies, turning the gray walls black, roaring ground-ward, gathering speed and force and volume with each additional foot of drop, building into a fluid battering ram that nothing could resist. 

Not even the highly-trained reflexes of the United States Secret Service could prevent Ron from being mesmerized by this fantastic sight: a booming, endless flood headed right for him with the speed of a bullet train. It smashed into the silo floor, detonated like a bomb and exploded in every possible direction: up, despite the never-ending supply and sheer mass still on its way down - and sideways. It slammed Ron backward and immediately followed him into Sherwood Forest. 

**Topside...**

The fierce and unexpected cataract wrenched Leo's grip from the already-slippery rungs. Only Toby's hold on his wrist saved him from a straight drop. Jeffries did not have that extra anchor and tumbled free, plunging down with the newborn waterfall. 

It just kept coming; nothing on earth could hold it back now. The mouth of the silo had finally been pulled below sea level. 

Somehow, Toby held on. Leo's weight actually provided the ballast he needed to avoid being washed away himself. Also, he'd happened to choose the upstream position; after the first few seconds the worst of the wave subsided, and most of the residual water was being channeled down the silo, not into his face. Sputtering for air, slipping on wet steel, he anchored himself against the hatch's burned-through hinge posts and heaved upward, with every bit of strength he commanded and some extra power he never knew he had. Then a SEAL who'd been up-deck enough to resist the wave was there beside him, reaching for Leo's other hand. Together, fighting the inexorable cascade that opposed their every move, they hauled the soaked and half-drowned Chief of Staff up to safety. 

**Below deck...**

Ron struggled to stand; he'd been carried twenty yards or more from the silo by that aquatic detonation. The ocean was blasting through the access hatch like a dozen fire hydrants. Drenched to the skin, he shook the water out of his eyes and raced for the hatch. Running _around_ the silo; he knew better than to try crossing the water's ferocious path even if it would technically be the shortest distance. 

He hit the hatch at speed and flung it closed. Just before it could completely lock tight, though, momentum lost out against the relentless sea and it swung wide again, admitting countless more gallons every second. 

Ron tried again, calling upon every last iota of energy and desperation he could muster. The hatch swung so hard it would have severed almost any object in the way. Only the fact that the silo's very size somewhat restricted the total amount of water made it possible for one man to fight that water and win. This time the latch caught. At once Ron threw his shoulder against the hard metal to keep it there, and dropped his weight against the pressurizing lever. 

The solid _chunk_ of it fastening securely into place must have been one of the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard. 

**Topside...**

Toby, Leo and the SEAL, who turned out to be the only other men aboard the "Callanan," stood gasping and dripping and still holding each other's arms. They'd backed up instinctively to avoid the lapping waves. A huge section of the bow had vanished from sight. The ocean had risen to just above the mouth of that open silo, and the resulting intake did indeed look exactly with a drain: swirling down in a vortex that would not stop. 

Then - before they could get their minds past their narrow escape and consider what all this flooding would do to the compartment below, much less the people _inside_ that compartment - that vortex gurgled to a halt. The water wasn't so high up the deck yet that they couldn't see the open hatchway as a ghostly pale spot against the submerged black hull. Air bubbles rose almost lazily, an absurd impression after the savage influx. The silo had reached its volume capacity and could contain no more. 

The three tried to process this. No more room... that meant all of the space below had been filled... _no air_... 

A sudden, larger mass of bubbles startled them all. Then, like some hellish sea monster, an indefinable black shape darkened the shimmering sea-green hole leading down into the sub's inner recesses. No sooner had this fact registered than the obsidian apparition broke the surface with a splash. 

The sight quickly made sense: helmet, wet-suit, goggles and breathing apparatus. A human figure scrambled out to stand on the deck, removed goggles and mask, and revealed the features of Lieutenant Jeffries. 

If someone _had_ to fall down that tube, at least it had been someone with protective gear and a personal air supply. He looked little the worse for wear. 

"Are you all okay?" he shouted over the chatter of the chopper. A quick glance told him why the numbers of his squad had been reduced: five men paddled in the sea to port. 

Toby didn't even give that question a passing thought. "What happened down there? Is the President all right?" 

Pause. "I don't know. Probably." 

"PROBABLY?" Leo was too shocked to feel cold or wetness or self-concern \- only horror. 

Jeffries shrugged. "The access hatch has been sealed. Butterfield must've closed it against the inrush of water." 

Toby reacted automatically. "Good man!" 

"Yes, and no," the leader of the SEAL team countered. "It'll keep the ocean out so that he and the President don't drown... but it'll keep _us_ out as well." He shook his head despondently. "We have no way to get in to them now." 

These four men stood there, on the tilting submarine deck, two of them with plastered clothes and hair. They occupied a tiny metal island adrift beyond sight of land, an island losing more and more stability as the minutes passed, an island under constant assault from the merciless sea and being consumed internally by lethal radiation. An island determined to destroy itself before anyone or anything else could do so. 

These four men stood there, two of them armed to the teeth, yet all of them equally powerless to alter events. Above their heads loomed a state-of-the-art military helicopter, the most versatile aircraft around, yet quite unable to transport the one man who needed it most. On the damp steel plates behind them lay the rescue basket, its heavy cable slack, its blankets wet through. It had been provided with the urgent intent to lift a world leader to safety, but now its usefulness had likewise been circumvented. 

These four men stood there, fighting to grasp the repercussions of the past few seconds. A few seconds: that's all it had taken for a wave to roll over and catapult them from the threshold of a safe and complete evacuation, casualties notwithstanding, into utter disaster. The President of the United States was still trapped in a burning nuclear vessel, alive yet injured, and harder to reach than ever. 

Toby wiped a hand across his face, as though to sweep away water and confusion and anxiety. To no avail. His imagination painted a vivid picture of what had happened below, and what was happening now. Ron had done the right thing; any delay would be better than dying on the spot... so long as rescue was still possible. Otherwise, the two remaining prisoners would wish they _had_ died at once. 

Was rescue possible _at all_ now? 

Leo stared at that underwater aperture, brows down, eyes wide, mouth open. He had been irrevocably sealed off from his best friend. Between fate and a sinking boat, the choice of returning or not had been taken away from him. 

At this moment, he had no reason to believe he would ever see Jed Bartlet alive again. 


	14. All Things Being Equal 14

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

U.S.S. HOUSTON 

The first helicopter hovered over the stern of the cruiser, seemed to hesitate for the most nerve-wracking time, and then with delicate precision touched down. At once the passengers started to climb out. 

On the bridge's exterior walkway, two decks up and half a ship-length away, Abbey Bartlet gripped the rail before her, eyes glued to this process. It really didn't take long - the Hotspur team members and the "Houston's" deck crew were efficiency personified, with lots of helipad watch and naval paramedics on hand to help - but to her, every moment crawled. 

Any passenger in a black wet-suit was a SEAL, so anyone _not_ in such a suit had to be a rescuee. Perversely, the side of the chopper facing the ship's interior was the side the naval officers occupied. Hyde and Lung stepped down, slowly and in evident weariness, yet looking so white and pristine that one might wonder if they hadn't been lounging in the mess instead. DeSoto came right after, young and well-built - but even he didn't brim with energy. Abbey knew none of them, except by name and occupation as proclaimed in the news. Despite Fitzwallace's assurances earlier, was _nobody_ on Herc Alpha someone she knew and cared for personally? 

Then at last from the other side came Charlie and Eleanor, his arm protectively around her, her long hair waving in the rotor's wind. 

For a moment the First Lady sagged in overwhelming relief. Her baby was safe. She breathed deeply and smiled. Assurances or not, a mother's heart has to see to believe. 

Curiously, the quintet did not come inside at once. None showed any great joy that they were at last on a safe and stable vessel. In unison, by unspoken agreement, they grouped together and headed straight for the starboard rail. That didn't sit well with the deck crew, the medical personnel or Colonel Morino, but no amount of insistence that they at once report to sickbay had much effect. The five castaways paid no attention to the offers of help, the orders to get inside and the frustration at being ignored. One and all they stared back across the waves, towards the submarine they'd just left, over which the second helicopter now hovered. 

"Why don't they come in?" Abbey wondered aloud, the fear in her heart gaining a new toehold. "Don't they _want_ to come in?" 

"Guess they don't want to miss anything." Fitz kept his binoculars on the "Callanan". Clearly he was afraid _he's_ miss something if he so much as blinked. 

"Miss _what?_ " She shifted feet, hands opening and closing on the rail in a frenzy of not knowing. "What do they know that we don't? Can't you find out? Aren't you of _all_ people supposed to know?" 

"The SEALs are working as fast as they can, ma'am. I don't want to distract them with questions." 

"Not even about the _President?_ " 

"Not even. Time is just too tight." He didn't look at her. He couldn't indulge either of their wishes right now. 

Abbey turned and headed for the door to the bridge, and hence to the deck - then turned again and came back. Her frustration at being denied information and her desire to be with Ellie pulled her one way; her fast-escalating terror for her husband held her here. The others knew what _had happened_ to Jed; Fitz knew what _was happening._

"Why would he be on the _second_ chopper?" She was talking for talking's sake, venting rather than inquiring. The greatest likelihood sent chills down her spine. 

The Admiral made no effort to answer such a rhetorical question; besides, he had other logistics on his mind. "Damn; they're moving around faster than ever. I can't pick out faces. That spray doesn't help, and the waves are definitely rising. I'm sure the boat's riding lower now than it was a few minutes ago. Also, Herc Beta happens to be angled away from us." He exhaled, expressing his own tension. "I saw one SEAL leap from Herc Alpha just as it was lifting off. That's not something you do by choice. Of course the rescue is a lot of work, and they'll need every pair of hands available. They have to manually lower the basket down the silo, load the casualty into the basket, load the other survivors into Herc Beta itself, then manually haul the basket _very_ carefully up the -" 

His precise, professional recitation stopped. 

Abbey spun on him at once. "What?" 

_"Holy..."_ That was a real prayer. 

"WHAT?" 

"They're lifting off!" Fitz sounded like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. " _No way_ could they have gotten a casualty out that fast!" 

She seized the rail again, straining for magnified vision herself. The helicopter had indeed risen from the sub's now-unpopulated deck. 

As it reached a certain altitude, the rope attached to the rescue basket became taut and jerked that basket into the air as well. 

"You don't handle a spinal injury like that," Abbey almost gasped. 

"You sure _don't._ Plus, an at-sea rescue always has one or more rescuers safety-lined to the basket at all times - to steady it and to keep the casualty calm." Fitz spoke through clenched teeth. Clearly he didn't find one good thing in this scenario. 

Binoculars or no, everyone could see how the basket jigged in the rotor backwash. It had to be lightweight in construction as well as strong. Any kind of cradle bearing any substantial mass - such as a human body - would never whip about that easily. 

It could only be empty. 

"Incomplete." The Chairman's voice actually trembled. "The rescue's incomplete." 

"Who's on board that thing?" Abbey demanded, her tone quivering as well. 

"I don't know!" 

On the stern below, Herc Alpha accelerated her own rotors and headed back into the sky. The "Houston" wasn't big enough to support _three_ military choppers at one time. Besides, this way any other survivors - or SEALs - on the sub could be picked up at once. 

Except that it looked like no one remained behind at all. The "Callanan's" swamped deck appeared void of life. 

Had she been totally abandoned? 

_"Ten survivors."_ Abbey peered down at those five lining the rail. "Has that number _dropped_ in the last few minutes? Has the casualty _died?_ And who..." 

She couldn't bring herself to finish that sentence. Her face had lost every trace of color. There was one obvious answer... one simple, horrific explanation for everything: why her husband had not been on the first airlift, _and_ why the basket now hung empty... 

Herc Beta rushed towards the cruiser like a mad hornet. The five on the rail turned together as it loomed overhead. From the bridge, and the bridge walkway, their expressions could be seen: an exact mirror of the First Lady's. 

The basket touched down first; its lack of an occupant seemed to shout an accusation. The deck crew quickly dragged it out of the way. Seconds later the helicopter settled onto the pad and black-clad SEALs at once leaped out. The paramedics, having got nowhere with the first five rescuees, hurried over towards (they hoped) more willing patients. 

The first civilian was Donnie. Abbey had seen him on her husband's detail often enough to at least know him by sight. Her eyes grew even wider; a Secret Service agent would never leave his or her protectee except in the most extreme circumstances. Plus, he was soaked through. 

Toby came next. He, too, was sodden and dripping. Somehow it seemed more apparent on him than on the agent who'd preceded him. 

And the other five from the first airlift were dry... 

Both men stayed right beside the chopper, rather than move away - either towards the ship's protective interior or towards their fellow castaways. Plainly they were waiting for someone... someone who had yet to appear... 

That someone was Leo. Drenched, terribly shaken and almost strengthless, he needed their help to descend to the deck; indeed, he needed help just to stand. Toby waved the naval personnel off, stepped in as a human crutch himself, and slowly guided the Chief of Staff forward. Away from their transportation. 

Everyone else's eyes darted back to that evacuating aircraft. 

Abbey let out a high, thin cry that the wind whipped away... a cry echoed by Ellie on the deck below. 

The interior of Herc Beta - was vacant. 

_No one else._

THE SITUATION ROOM 

Hoynes leaned onto the table, his brows drawing down. Many of the Joint Chiefs assumed similar poses. In the sudden crackling silence, they all shared the same thought. The next person on the line should have been the leader of the free world... 

"Commander?" 

"Mr. Vice President." This voice was unfamiliar, and tired. Well, one could understand exhaustion after what he'd gone through. "The Chairman asked me to give you all an official report." 

Okay, that made sense. This command post needed the technical details to conclude what had been from the start a very time-sensitive operation; the logical source of those details was the master of the boat. Besides, the President deserved a few moments with his wife and daughter after a narrow escape like that... 

"Go ahead. We're eager to hear it." 

"To begin with, sir, 'Navy One' is still afloat." 

Sudden shocked silence. What - 

_"'Navy One'?!"_ Nancy exclaimed first. They all knew the only reason _any_ naval vessel got to call itself that. "Don't tell me -" 

"Are you saying..." Hoynes had some trouble getting the words out, with all their hideous import "...the President is _still aboard that sub?_ " 

A weary sigh filled the air. "Yes, sir, I regret to say that I am. And he is." 

"HOW?" 

"Is he _alive?_ " As always, the NSA cut right to the heart of the matter. 

"To the best of my knowledge, yes... but I can't be absolutely certain." 

"Why _not?_ " 

"With your permission, I'll be systematic. But brief." Hyde inhaled carefully; everyone in the Situation Room could hear it, and could picture him bracing himself. 

"When the radiation alarm sounded, we took cover in Sherwood - uh, that is, the missile compartment. All of us made it there safely." 

One extra breath of relief whispered around the table. 

"We knew we'd be towed out to sea and scuttled as fast as possible, so we decided to arrange our own escape if we could. It was the President who came up with the idea of opening a missile silo hatch." 

More than one grin of pure admiration sneaked out. 

"We had to loosen a ceiling panel in order to find the tools we needed to break into one of the Special Ops silos - the ones with ladders." The way Hyde paused here, one could guess what was coming. "Unfortunately, before we could pop the outer hatch, there was a hard jerk - something about the tow, I've been told. Wave convergence; we're not sure." Another pause. "The panel fell." 

The pounding heart rates could almost be heard. A universal question hung right over their heads: _How bad?_ Hyde had said he _thought_ Bartlet was still alive, at least... 

"The President shoved one of his staff members to safety, but he couldn't get clear himself. The impact dealt him some severe back trauma." 

"So he's the one you were going to airlift out," Nancy realized softly. 

"Yes, ma'am. We did get almost everyone else out through the silo. The President had to be last, but we were well on our way to pulling it off in time. Until something new happened." No wonder Hyde sounded so beat. "The sinking accelerated. The silo filled. The bodyguard below had to close the lower hatch before Sherwood flooded completely." 

Silence. 

Hoynes sat down slowly. "Dear heavens. He's still trapped down there. Alone." 

"Not _quite_ alone," Nancy corrected. "At least one Secret Service agent is still on hand." She allowed herself a knowing half-smile. "Butterfield?" 

"Yes, ma'am," Hyde confirmed. "Everyone else is safe, including the First Daughter. And the First Lady is here, so at least that's _one_ reunion we've managed to accomplish." He did not sound all that enthused. 

The Vice President shook his head in similar despondency. "One out of two? Still not good enough. _Now_ what do we do?" 

"We're working on it, sir," Fitz interposed. "But those two men have limited air, no suits and no protection of any kind. Getting in to them just got a lot harder." 

"It's just one thing after another. Is there any naval cruise in history that's been plagued with _half_ as much bad luck as this one?" 

No one had any answer to give. Somewhat embarrassed by his outburst, Hoynes regrouped. "Commander, what can you tell us about the President's injuries?" 

"Well, sir, his daughter diagnosed internal bleeding and a cracked rib, with possible spinal damage as well. He's in no condition to move much at all." 

"Medical training runs in that family," Nancy mused, mostly to herself. 

"Damned good thing!" Hoynes rose and resumed his pacing. 

Nancy had never been known to pace herself; her stillness in the worst crisis was almost a byword in this circle. However, for once she was fidgeting. "Meanwhile, Admiral, has the tow resumed?" 

"It has." They all could hear the reluctance in those two words. It echoed within their own hearts. "We've still got to get that boat over the continental shelf. Once we're there, we can hold off on any _permanent_ measures if we have to." 

"Here's hoping." The NSA rubbed her forehead. Had _any_ of these high-ranking officials managed to evade a tension headache this afternoon? 

Hoynes returned to his chair, but leaned on its back rather than sitting down. His features were shadowed; his dark vision swept the room. 

"So now we're in a _really_ different situation. We know there are survivors on that sub, and we know who they are - whereas earlier we were just hoping. That should increase our determination... but it also makes our final decision a lot harder. We can no longer tell ourselves that _maybe_ there are no survivors left to kill in the first place." His shoulders bowed under the weight of reality. "Now we know there are." 

THE WEST WING 

"Josh." 

"TOBY!" Josh shot out of his chair as though stung, almost knocking his desk phone right off the blotter. "I don't believe it! Is it really _you?_ " 

"Last time I checked," the usual laconic voice retorted. 

"Oh, wow." Josh dropped the receiver, dashed around his desk and burst into the hall beyond. "IT'S TOBY!" he shouted for all the world to hear. 

And all the world heard, and all the world responded. Donna was first, by virtue of her own workspace's proximity, but Zoey crowded right behind her. Every support staff member within earshot dropped whatever they were doing and surged this way as well. 

Will stuck his head outside his own office, a positively plaintive look on his face. " _Please_ tell me I'm not hearing things?" 

C.J. arrived just then from down the corridor. She might have missed the shout, but she couldn't fail to notice the sudden boiling activity - all headed towards one destination. "What's going on? News?" 

Will didn't dare believe too soon, wary of the merciless dashing of fledgling hopes. "I _thought_ I heard Josh say something about Toby." 

"Toby called?" C.J.'s features split into a huge grin and she veritably sprinted after the crowd. That was enough to draw Will along too. 

Josh returned to his desk and hit the speakerphone toggle. "Toby! You're out!" 

"Yeah, I'm using a phone on the 'Houston'. This is great; I don't have to pay the long-distance charges. Besides, I managed to leave my own phone behind." 

Several listeners snickered. That sounded like their grouchy Communications Director, all right. 

Strangely, Josh did not share the amusement. He knew Toby well... and to him something in those words, in that touch of wit, seemed forced. 

C.J. and Will didn't hesitate to fight their way to the front of the line. "Toby?" the Press Secretary demanded. To those who didn't know her, she would have appeared more annoyed at his absence than worried about his well-being. 

"Hey, C.J. How's it going?" As though nothing in the world could be wrong. 

She rose to the challenge. "Going _crazy._ What _else_ happens when you guys take a holiday?" Still, a clear hint of laughter peeked through. 

Will seized his chance to contribute. This was his boss, too. "You're okay?" 

"Well, aside from the fact that I went for an unscheduled swim, yeah." Toby's voice did not lighten; it almost never did, joke or no joke. He cornered the market on deadpan humor in this White House. "Let me say for the record, I'm _really_ grateful that I missed out on military life after all. These uniforms itch." 

That alleviated any fears for his health after a ducking in the North Atlantic in April. Of course it would be his typical bad luck to get caught in the only wave, or be the only one to trip and fall overboard. Smiles flashed around the room. 

"I know what you mean," Will endorsed, grinning broadly now. "The laundry watch always uses too much bleach, and their soap choice sucks." 

"Uh, Toby?" As usual, Donna brought everyone back to the central issue. "There's someone here who'd really like to speak to her father and her sister." 

Everyone turned to Zoey. She was aglow with anticipation at doing that very thing. 

The pause that followed gradually caused several frowns of confusion. 

"Yeah..." Toby's tone didn't change, but his speech pattern slowed noticeably. "You see, that will be a bit of a trick." 

It would? Why? Of course the President needed to confer with Fitzwallace, and he'd want a few moments with the First Lady who was right there, but these people knew beyond doubt that his _next_ priority would be to get on the phone to his other daughters... 

And the penny dropped. Until this moment, every single listener present had _known_ that if Toby got off the sub safely, of course the President had as well. Not one of them had even conceived of the possibility that... 

Again the silence stretched out. Faces started to fall, and hearts with them. 

"Toby?" There was no suppressed laughter in C.J.'s tone now: only growing dread. 

A gusty sigh shuddered through the speaker, and heralded the worst possible news. Everyone stiffened. 

NO... 

"We think he's still alive." 

THINK? 

"But he's still stuck in that sub." 

STILL? 

"And he's hurt." 

HURT? 

Zoey clenched her teeth to bite back a scream. Fighting down a similar sound, Donna steadied her from behind. 

For the first time in longer than anyone here could every recall, Toby's voice quavered. 

"He... saved my life." 

NAVY ONE 

"MR. PRESIDENT!" 

Ron splashed through the swirling water as fast as he could. It had stopped pouring in, and thanks to his swift action it didn't even reach his knees. However, he was standing - and could flee from it. For a person lying on the floor and unable to even raise his head... 

The agent bent double, seized two handfuls of crumpled blazer under his Chief Executive's shoulders, and heaved backwards, scrabbling as fast as he could uphill. Except for not lifting more than a couple of inches, he spared no time to think about causing further injury to the casualty himself. The sub was sinking by the bow; the water had naturally collected against the forward bulkhead. Its sheer volume, even in so short a time, covered a horizontal distance of over twenty yards, which extended well past the base of both Special Ops silos. 

Ron kept backing, desperate to get well beyond the water's reach. The cant of the deck had become rather more pronounced; his footing was more tenuous as a result, even when he hit dry plates. He panted painfully from this exertion on top of his strenuous efforts before, and couldn't help but hear the equally painful gasps of the man he was dragging, but still he didn't stop. If whatever had suddenly increased the boat's forward list changed its mind and threw her center of gravity into _reverse,_ all of that water would head straight for them. 

At last, two more silos beyond, he simply had to halt. With the last of his strength he gently lowered the upper half of his protectee to the floor... and then he sank heavily into a seat alongside, braced up his own head, and just concentrated on breathing. 

"Are you okay?" 

Right now he was too beat to so much as look around. Duty, though, could not easily be smothered. "That should be _my_ line, sir." 

Jed Bartlet had to work at bringing his own anguished respirations under control, but that still failed to smother _his_ sense of duty. Or his sense of humor. "Hey, you're the one who was blown halfway across the room, and you did all the work. I'm just lying here, taking it easy." 

"Not as easy as you should. I hope I didn't aggravate anything." Ron began to rise again, with the intent of seeing for himself. 

"Sit back and relax. You need a rest, and I'm not going to run off." 

That self-diagnosis was certainly true. The President continued to perspire, despite the freezing water's touch - from the pain right up his back and right around his ribs. He must have been wrenched in a few places by Ron's frantic drag race. 

Chest still heaving, the senior agent unsteadily gained his knees and started a surface examination. "There's no point pretending, sir. The water was spraying everywhere, and you couldn't have dodged it anyway. Can you breathe all right? Did you swallow any?" 

"No; I didn't get it in the face like you did. You guys had the foresight to stash me well off to one side." Even so, just the slap of icy water must have hitched his breath, wrenched out an extra gasp or two and constricted his chest, all of which would've extracted a corresponding price in abused muscles. Also, Bartlet could not prevent his convulsive need to shiver against the cold... which both tensed those same muscles horribly and rattled them all over again. "On the other hand, I'll be lucky not to develop aquaphobia on top of everything else." 

No one could blame him for the thought. As though it wasn't enough to be trapped in this steel cave with no escape, or to confront drowning on top of that, he had been forced to lie there and watch the water sweep towards him, unable to avoid it in any way... 

He swung off that angle at once. "I think I understand now why there are so many deaths in bathtubs." 

"All it takes is a few inches to drown." Ron removed the two uniform jackets on top; they seemed damp rather than soaked. The coats on which the President lay, however, and which had been dragged along by his weight, were all wet through. He'd been only partly immersed, up to his belt and along most of his back; at least his chest and head remained dry. 

Ron muttered an expletive. "And all it takes is a few wet clothes to develop hypothermia." The trunk generates most of the body heat, but chilled extremities will send dangerously cool blood towards the chest and heart. 

"You're wetter than I am by far." True, and the senior agent couldn't hide his own shivering. "You should take back your own coat." Bartlet tried to twist his head around. "It's here somewhere." 

"You need it more than I do, sir. I'm not bordering on shock." 

"Which makes it all the more important that you don't _develop_ shock. Any warmth is essential for you now." The President was quite serious. "When your wife's a doctor, you can't help but learn a few things." 

Ron made no move to accept the offer. "Then you also know that my condition will improve over time. I can move around and keep myself warm. And I'm going to start by moving _you._ You have to get out of your own jacket - now." 

Bartlet opened his mouth to wisecrack, then caught the snap in his chief bodyguard's eye and changed his mind. "I see. What do you recommend?" 

Ron exhaled. "Sir, I know this is going to hurt, and I know this might even make your injuries worse. But if we don't get that soaked material away from you, you won't have to worry about the injuries _or_ the pain. _Ever._ " 

Pause. "Well argued." 

"Do you still have feeling in your legs?" 

"They're stinging away, but I can move them if I have to." He demonstrated, wincing at each shift. 

For a moment Ron looked downright guilty. The guilt, however, did not dilute his conviction that this action must be taken. "Okay. Brace yourself." 

"Right. Piece of cake." The President closed his eyes, set his teeth and breathed as deeply as he could several times, summoning all the strength of his body and soul. 

Ron took an extra deep breath himself, well aware of the risks. Still, with rescue beyond their reach again, neither of them had much choice. He selected careful handholds and, working as smoothly as he could, rolled The Man towards him. 

It took only a single heartbeat... a small eternity of anguish. Bartlet ground his jaws together, but a groan still escaped him. Fire shot through every nerve he had. 

Ron worked fast, wasting no motion as he settled his protectee into the recovery position. Then he peeled the suit jacket off the closer arm, trying very hard not to move that arm more than he had to. Trying to ignore the half-choked murmurs of pain. 

"Easy... almost done..." At last the garment came free, and he could move it off - except for the other arm, partially trapped under his protectee's body by the shift in posture. 

The President's labored breathing began to ease; as long as he didn't move, the internal flame was tolerable. "I'm getting tired of staring at this floor." Actually, he wasn't; his eyes remained screwed tight. 

"Not long now. Hang on." Ron retrieved the abandoned handkerchief and pressed it against that slice across Bartlet's lower ribs. "I'm afraid my hauling earlier re-opened this gash." 

"Figures. I don't do anything by halves." 

"No, sir, you don't. Now, for the rest of these coats..." Rapidly, despite his own sinking strength, Ron wrung as much seawater from each of the six dark blazers as possible. He tried to set them back down exactly where they were before, so that they would support The Man's spine the way Eleanor had judged best. Finally, he tucked the wet executive jacket as snugly against the executive spine as he could without applying too much pressure. 

"Ready when you are, sir." 

"Ready as I'll ever be." Bartlet braced himself for another trip down agony lane. 

At last it was over. He rested face-up on material that again padded his badly-bruised back and, while still damp, at least was no longer an active source of cold. Ron wedged the handkerchief against the bleeding gouge, then eased The Man's bunched and sodden blazer out from under him \- an action the roll back had made possible - slipped it off his other arm, wrung it out as well, and placed it across his chest. Ron's last step was to supplement this blanketing effect with the two white jackets as well, the only source of insulation available. Then he sat back with a worn-out sigh of his own. 

"That's all I can do. At least this way the cloth will contain some of your body heat instead of drawing it off." 

"Thanks." The simple, weakly-uttered word contained a wealth of gratitude that banished any guilt from being compelled to cause such torment. 

"I have one more question. Do you still have any sensation in your extremities?" 

Pause... 

"You know, for once the pain is a _good_ sign." 

The agent nodded, too relieved to smile. "It is." At least neither of them had to add paralysis to their list of concerns. 

Suddenly, Ron had nothing to do. He glanced around, surveying their surroundings. However, the view from the floor offered little. Weary yet determined, he stood. 

The deck seemed stable at the moment. The water remained downhill, almost still by now. The missile compartment felt very quiet, and very empty. It makes a lot of difference when you're surrounded by activity and purpose and friends, even in the direst circumstances. 

Bartlet had much the same thought, but he pursued it in a different direction. Totally drained though he was, he judged this important enough to merit the effort. "Do you think the others made it out okay?" 

Ron hesitated just a fraction. "I believe so." 

His leader wasn't fooled. "Ron... let's have the whole truth." Even worn out, that resonant voice lowered dangerously. "I heard the shouting up there just before the water main broke." 

The agent sighed. "Toby and Donnie were helping Leo out when the silo flooded." 

The President stiffened in apprehension; that sharp movement promptly forced him to bite back a fresh groan. "God... that means some of them must've been drenched as well!" 

"Don't worry, sir; they'll be looked after. The SEALs were right there, and the escorting cruiser has to be just a short hop away. " 

"Yeah, but Leo for _sure_ won't take well to a dip in the Atlantic at this time of year." How typical: that both sides of the Bartlet/McGarry team spent so much time worrying about each other. 

After a long pause, the President forced himself to dismiss that worry as counterproductive. "So, everyone else got out. That's a big step in the right direction, at least." He had to be thinking of Eleanor as well. "Where does it leave you and me?" 

"On the move again." 

Bartlet frowned at that strange reply. "What?" 

Ron was watching that large pool of green ocean very closely. It had settled into near-stillness before, but now definite ripples danced across its surface. 

And since both men were well beyond its limits, this undeniable agitation had to be caused by the sub itself. 

"They've resumed the tow." Ron allowed not the merest hint of emotion to infiltrate his words. 

"Good." 

That prompt endorsement made his brows rise despite himself. 

"They'll send in the SEALs again, naturally... but the priority is the reactor, not me." The Man displayed no emotion, either. "They still have to get this tub out deep enough to sink it safely." 

There was a real parallel here that, perhaps regrettably, few people would notice. Ron had always been willing to sacrifice his life for his charge. In exactly the same way, Bartlet would not hesitate to sacrifice _his_ life for _his_ charge - the world. Glory and history had nothing to do with it, for either of them. 

The President gazed at the ceiling, his breath rate slowly stabilizing, his strength rallying at least a little, his eyes unfocused. "I wonder how long we have." 

There was no anxiety or even apprehension in his voice; more like a practical curiosity to this factor of the puzzle, so that he could start working on a solution. 

Anyone stuck in a life-threatening crisis should be blessed to share it with another who keeps a level head and faces the situation rationally. Ron responded in the same way: frank, not depressing. "An hour. Maybe two." 

He studied the standing water again. Its surface became even more turbulent... and now the gentle rolling motion could be detected underfoot as well. 

"The tugs are having trouble - probably because much of the bow is completely underwater. It's not likely, but if there's another major change in the boat's attitude, that water will flow _this_ way, and we'll have to move again." 

"Something to look forward to. Meanwhile, let's see if we can come up with our own options." Regardless of the pain, the cold and the fatigue, Bartlet tried to glance about. 

"Don't strain yourself, sir. You've already done more than enough." 

"Then don't stop me while I'm on a roll." A sigh of bone-deep tiredness immediately belied that. "Besides, it's boring to just lie here and wait to be rescued... and it doesn't do a thing for the ego." 

Ron gave up arguing. His instincts likewise rebelled against non-action. Wrestling with a near-impossible problem was still preferable to giving up. Besides, the President had already pulled off one brain wave. Another couldn't be totally impossible... 

_"Hey!"_ Something _had_ dawned, all right. Unfortunately, that inspiration led to a sudden shift in eagerness, which in turn led to an executive wince. 

" _Try_ not to move, sir, for your own good." 

"Both of us stand to lose a lot more than what's _good_ for me." Bartlet stubbornly fought the fire and the cold eating away at him. "Ron, do you think we can open up _another_ one of these silos? One further back, that's still above water? Even if it doesn't have a ladder, they could drop a rope down to us..." 

The agent considered this. "One problem: I don't know the codes to activate the hatch command sequences." 

"How difficult can it be? If a missile starts to go nova, the crew would have to dump it in a _big_ hurry." 

"There's still a high level of security to maintain. And my own training didn't include how to hot-wire nuclear warheads, or their silos either." 

Could that have been the merest wisecrack, from this most humorless of bodyguards? The President grinned in both wonder and delight. "Well, we'll have to work that course into the next curriculum." 

Then he subsided into a scowl of frustration. The answer seemed so _close._ "Is there any way they can get those codes to us?" 

This time Ron's headshake did contain a touch of despondency. "Not when they can't get through on a radio frequency." 

The Man exhaled slowly, his own optimism in decline. "Damn. Well, I guess I can't expect to win them all." 

"That was still good thinking, sir. And it reminds me..." Ron belatedly removed his own two-way. The receiver rode on his belt; the earphone was clipped to his shirt collar and the transmitter to his sleeve. "This isn't much use now anyway." 

Bartlet shivered painfully again - _not_ from the cold this time. "Thank God your swim earlier didn't short something out. That would've been unpleasant, to say the least." 

"They're supposed to be shielded against immersion to _some_ extent. In case we have to dive in after you, or the like." 

The President's jaw dropped. "You're telling me that's not a joke?" 

"No, sir." Ron's set features didn't twitch. "Still, I don't see any point in pushing the manufacturer's specs." He tossed the useless device aside. 

"Right. We've pushed _enough_ envelopes for one afternoon." At the moment The Man seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself. He'd drawn out the most reticent individual he'd ever met, and Ron had allowed himself to be roped into the game. But then, inane conversation does help to keep one calm, and is often the last defense against despair. 

Pause. 

"Say," Bartlet said abruptly, " _this_ might be something. The hatches leading into the hallways outside - _they_ don't have locks, do they?" 

Ron turned towards the bow. The large hatch set into that bulkhead had seawater up fully half its height, but looked identical to the one the whole touring party had entered through from the stern. "No; just latches." 

"And do these heavy-duty portals all open inward?" 

"Yes, sir. That way they don't swing out and block the narrow corridors. Also, if a compartment floods and the crew has to close it off, the pressure of the flooding will work in their favor, holding the hatch tight shut against the combing lips." 

"Then I have another idea after all." The President stared upward, as though getting this straight from the Almighty. "I want you to open that forward hatch." 

Amazingly, Ron didn't change expression - but his total silence conveyed his disbelief in huge block letters. 

"The fire should be out by now, considering how much water there must be in the bow. And if it isn't out completely, the water you let out of _here_ will go a long way towards finishing it off for good." 

That had a certain amount of sense to it. 

"Or, if there is water on the other side, you won't be pushing against it, so opening that door shouldn't be too difficult." 

That did _not_ make sense. Such an action would increase the flooding in _this_ compartment. 

"And then you can swim out." 

...And the harsh light dawned. 

Ron actually scrambled for his voice. "Sir -!" 

This time Bartlet looked directly at the tall agent standing over him. His eyes were steady and deliberate. "You'll have a much better chance of getting out if you go now. Before we dip any further below the surface." 

"You think I'm going to abandon my post -" That, to any bodyguard, was a cardinal sin, no matter _how_ bleak the outlook. 

"There's no point shackling yourself to a lost cause, Ron. Besides, I've already hashed this out with Ellie, Byron _and_ Leo today. I'm getting tired of repeating myself. I'll die easier knowing you're _all_ out safely." 

He'd said it at last - the thing none of them had dared put into words, as though afraid that doing so would make it come true. 

Of all the people he had argued with today, he had to know that this was the _one_ man whom no amount of logic _or_ passion would ever shift. Still, he had to try. 

Both men held their respective poses for the longest time, the air between them charged as it never had been before in their four years of working together. This would not be the first time the President had contested his security chief on some matter... but no previous debate could compare. This was not the protectee wanting more freedom or more discretion. This was the protectee sending the protector away completely \- for the protector's own good. 

Finally Ron broke the silence. "Mr. President. Leaving aside the most obvious reason why I'm going to refuse your offer -" 

"That obvious reason being more than a little moot in this particular scenario," Bartlet pointed out. "You can't do anything more for me." 

"That's not yet guaranteed. Besides, I also happen to be one person you _can't_ give orders to." 

"Which you were _not_ supposed to remember." 

The agent stood his ground. "There are still a few other factors to take into account. I do not know the layout of this boat by heart. It would be suicidal to go exploring in a sinking ship without an air supply. No one can swim for long in water this cold and live. And finally, if there isn't either a flood _or_ a blaze on the other side of that hatch, then there's radiation. So I'm not too tempted to open it." 

The silence returned. 

Rolling his eyes, the President resigned himself to defeat. "Well, between your logic _and_ your dedication, I don't have much of a chance here." 

He shifted slightly, seeking a more comfortable position despite the aches at every flinch. "So! What's next?" 

He must have chosen that particular phrase deliberately. It invoked progress, positive thinking, and the memory of past successes. 

Ron thought about it. Then he shook off some more of the water still clinging to him, and adopted a firm, confident stance. 

"We wait." 


	15. All Things Being Equal 15

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

U.S.S. HOUSTON 

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so sorry. I did the best I could. But it wasn't enough... I didn't do enough..." Eleanor wiped at her tears of horror, pain and anticipatory grief, eyes on the floor, consumed with failure and shame. 

"Shh." Abbey placed both hands on either side of her daughter's face. "You did fine. You did exactly right on all counts." 

Slowly, Ellie forced herself to look up. 

Her mother peered at her even more intensely. "Believe me, I know how hard it is to treat a member of your own family." Ellie had to nod at that. "You're going to make one hell of a doctor some day." 

That endorsement sparked a blink of sheer surprise. 

Abbey forced herself to chuckle. "You know, this whole thing reminds me of Rosslyn in more ways than one. All I need now is your father getting into a mess with Elizabeth to round everything out." 

The amusement did not reach her eyes. 

"Only so long as they get out of that one, too," Ellie whispered, trying to do her share of mood-buttressing. "Third time's the charm?" 

Her mother's lips tightened, and her voice dropped as well. "Or three strikes." 

Ellie leaned in for another hug. She needed the physical contact so badly right now. 

Abbey welcomed it in turn. These two women stood quietly together, respectfully avoided by the rest of the rescuees and the entire ship's crew as well. 

"Now." The First Lady drew back, her mouth quivering on the fringe of a smile she wanted to offer yet didn't quite dare. "The Captain has a phone set aside for us. You go call Zoey. My money's on Josh's office. She can conference Liz in. I'll be right there." 

"Okay." Ellie summoned all of the self-control she could - which was quite a bit, considering what she'd gone through and what her father was _still_ going through. She had a lot of both parents in her. "Okay," she repeated with a little more conviction. Then, slowly, she moved off on her own. 

Standing some distance away, Toby watched this touching scene. His own expression had shut right down against any show of emotion at all. 

"Toby." Leo approached from behind, his face more heavily lined than ever. 

The two men studied each other. Both looked rather tousled, even more so than after the longest day at the office. Toby wore the same khaki as all of the bridge officers, except for a dearth of insignia due to his nonexistent rank. Coincidentally Leo, once an officer in truth, had been issued the NCM blues instead - likewise with no rank in sight. It was almost enough to spawn a grin. Almost. 

"Good thing these guys have their own laundromat on board," the Communications Director observed laconically. 

The Chief of Staff nodded. "Yeah, they prepare for everything." At least both were warm and dry again, their survival assured. The outfits mattered little. 

Leo had been the last one to warm up and dry out, so he moved to catch up on business at once. "The West Wing?" 

"I got through, no problem. Everyone's there, and everything's under control. Considering. And Byron's keeping the Sit Room up to date." 

"I appreciate that - from both of you." This delegation of tasks freed Leo to concentrate on the crisis here. 

Then he angled his head, that sharp business acumen fading. "You called Andi?" 

"Yeah." As verbose as ever about personal affairs, Toby said no more. 

"Good." Leo let it go at that. If there had been a problem with the twins, or anything else, Toby would tell him - or not. "The others?" 

"I know Charlie put in a call. And the First Daughters are about to connect as well." Now Toby paused, reflecting that same subtle gentleness that neither of these two men ever revealed if they could help it. "Mallory?" 

A brief nod. "I've spoken to her." Again, no more needed to be said. Those who had come through this calamity thus far had touched base with their loved ones. They now felt at liberty to concentrate on those still at risk - those still in dire need. 

An awkward silence fell. Both men knew what was coming next. 

"You jumped out of an airborne helicopter?" Leo asked bluntly. His tone projected accusation, as a supervisor should, and incredulity as well. 

Toby dropped his gaze. "That was kind of my reaction at the time, too." 

"If I didn't have six witnesses lined up, I'd never believe it. Josh going all Rambo on us - that I can see. But _you?_ " 

That comment hadn't intended to imply that Toby couldn't do something so heroic, but rather that Toby wouldn't do something so insane. 

"I wasn't... thinking." That claim would raise every pair of eyebrows in Washington federal politics. This man almost never made a move without in-depth contemplation first. 

Leo wasn't satisfied. "Well, you obviously had _something_ in mind. Did it even occur to you that you could have killed yourself - or someone else? Do you know how close Byron came to nose-diving after you?" 

Toby shuffled his feet, well aware of the repercussions that might have been. "Yeah, he's already bawled me out for it." 

"You try a stunt like that again and I'll throw you out headfirst myself." Leo made a fine show of reading the riot act to a rogue subordinate for totally inappropriate behavior. It was his way to mask what he _really_ felt. 

Toby opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. 

"The President gave me... a great gift." Now he straightened, making his case and his stand. "I wanted to... return it." 

And he had. In a fashion that no one - not Toby, not Leo, not the President himself - could have predicted... but that none of them would oppose, either. By saving another life in turn. 

Leo's craggy features softened. He didn't quite smile; the overall situation remained far too grim for that. However, a new light entered his weary eyes. 

"Thanks." 

Toby possessed that same spirit of verbal reticence and emotional armor. He just nodded... a simple gesture that spared them both unnecessary embarrassment, yet said everything that needed saying. 

Then Leo's gaze slid past - and he went rigid. Frowning in new apprehension, Toby rotated. 

The First Lady was heading towards them. 

Neither wanted to face her. They just could not get past the feeling that they'd abandoned her husband to his fate. 

Toby managed to hold his ground. Leo couldn't. As though repelled, or dragged, by a force of immeasurable power, the Chief of Staff backed away, beating a retreat with no thought for dignity. 

The Communications Director took a stranglehold on his nerve. Abbey did not look openly accusing, but how could she not be? 

"Ma'am -" 

"I don't want to hear it, Toby." She overrode him as quietly and irresistibly as the President would have done. "He saved you from a serious injury. It was his choice to do so, not yours. And just because it happened to _be_ you does not make his choice less valid, or the price he paid less worthwhile." She laid a gentle hand on his arm. "You have your own abiding value. Do _not_ let this pointless guilt convince you otherwise." 

Toby towered over her, yet he must have felt shrunken indeed. Uncharacteristically, he struggled for words. 

"You know that any of us... _any_ of us would have willingly taken his place." 

Abbey's brows pinched. Perhaps that helped her to resist the tears. "I know." She drew in a shaky breath. "And believe me, so does he." 

"Mrs. Bartlet?" 

Both turned. In a way, any interruption was welcome. Their emotions roiled dangerously close to a mass breakout. 

Charlie lingered several yards off. Usually he'd walk right up... but not today. 

"Your daughters are on the phone." 

Abbey exhaled slowly. "I'll just be a minute. I have one more person to see." 

Then she regrouped. "Actually, two." Her vision narrowed shrewdly. "You're another candidate for self-castigation, Charlie." 

The body man hung his head. Everyone seemed to be doing that around her lately, as though it was a personal failing in each that they hadn't accomplished the impossible by now. 

"No one can blame you for leaving when you had the chance to live and when you were _ordered_ to live. There was nothing more you could do for him, except take a load off his mind. Which you did. It was the harder decision of the two, and you made it. Now Ellie and I need you." Abbey's next words containing an optimism no one else shared. "And the President will soon be needing you again as well." 

Whether _she_ believed that or not, she was determined to convince the rest of them. She waited, allowing the silence to stretch out, until at last Charlie drew himself up. 

"Yes, ma'am." Perhaps a little less of the world rode upon his shoulders now. 

"That's better." The First Lady had stepped into much the same role that her husband would have fulfilled: rallying the troops. "Tell my girls I'll be right there." 

She had one last soldier to address. 

She found him on deck. He ignored the cool wind and the salt spray, staring out over the blue-gray waves at the far-distant "Callanan". Its obsidian tower leaned at a more pronounced angle than ever. Its bow couldn't be seen at all. 

"Leo." 

His whole body cringed, as though he'd been struck. His head bowed. His knuckles went white on the rail. 

Abbey approached cautiously. He looked ready to bolt - or to dive overboard. Anything to escape her. To escape the condemnation he fully expected her to voice... the condemnation that burned in his own heart. 

She had to make the overture. He would never come to her now. 

One doesn't survive as a doctor or the wife of a big-name politician without learning how to read people, and how to pacify them. Abbey eased up alongside, not quite looking at him, and silently slipped her arm through his. 

Her compassion and understanding probably made him feel worse rather than better. He never cut himself any slack. 

They stood together, gazing across the waters towards "Navy One". She remained afloat, and inaccessible. She still imprisoned the man that they both loved - loved in different ways, but loved with a fierce and protective strength. 

At length, Abbey sighed. "He ordered you out." It was not a question. 

Leo couldn't face her. His expression encompassed a pain second only to her own. He breathed hard, as though in physical anguish. 

Abbey tried again, tried to offer some absolution. "We all know you never would've left otherwise." 

The wind brushed past them. Towards that sub... almost as though carrying their words to the captives that remained behind. 

"I walked out on him." He barely got the damning confession out. " _How_ could I have _done_ that to him? What do orders mean at a time like this?" 

"He knows you too well, Leo. And he loves you too much to risk your life as well." Now Abbey smiled. "I can just hear him. For the sake of duty and responsibility, right?" 

She had hit closer to the mark than even she knew. Leo didn't enlighten her. Revealing the full import of Jed Bartlet's farewell would _ensure_ that it came true. 

Leo shook his head. "What about _friendship?_ " 

If he lived and his best friend died... 

In this next pause, the First Lady was unable to prevent a shudder of pure terror. She gripped the Chief of Staff's arm a bit tighter, clinging to any support she could. 

In a symbolic manner, each of them represented to the other the epitome of torment. In Abbey, Leo saw the devoted wife he would have to watch suffer, and he'd feel directly responsible for that pain every step of the way. In Leo, Abbey saw the right-hand man who survived where her husband might not. 

At the same time, no one in the world came close to understanding how either of them truly felt... except each other. 

Neither of them said the _real_ words, but those words took almost visible shape in the surrounding air: that both would rather die with Jed Bartlet than live without him. And now they had to stand there on the cruiser together, and watch the worst of it all slowly develop. 

THE SITUATION ROOM 

"We're running out of time, people!" Hoynes' voice rang off the paneled walls. He could literally do nothing except pace and worry. 

Hyde had returned to the open line with the "Houston". "Sir. We think we now know what caused this latest complication and accelerated the sinking." He didn't have SEAL training himself, but he really knew submarines. "I suspect the trim tanks were compromised somehow. It's all run by computer - and between the radiation and the water, not to mention the power surge, the computer has to be out of whack." 

"Trim tanks?" 

"Yes, sir." The Commander automatically adopted a lecturer's tone; he must have played tour guide many times before today. "The main ballast tanks are the ones that take on air or water to make the boat go up or down. The trim tanks keep the boat stable as she cruises. If they aren't working properly, she'd be all over the place. Unlike the main tanks, the trim tanks need constant monitoring. Ballast is forever being shifted from one end of the boat to the other, maintaining balance and stability." 

The NSA was following closely. "And without a properly functioning computer..." 

"Exactly. I doubt there was an actual rupture; all it would take is a bit too much ballast being sent forward. The Navy put in all the safeguards there are, but this is too catastrophic for anyone or anything." 

The Vice President sighed. "I feel like I've become quite a naval expert by now. If only the knowledge didn't have such a high price tag." 

"Amen, sir." They all could hear the sincerity in those two words. 

He ran a nervous hand through his hair. "So the sub is sinking on its own?" 

"It's a delicate balancing act, sir. If she loses more than half her total buoyancy, she will go down. And she must've shipped a few extra tons of water through the silo, never mind what's already entered through the bow. However, if enough interior hatches are closed, then the flooding will reach a certain point and then stop. I closed all the hatches I could during our flight to Sherwood. There should still be enough air trapped inside to hold her yet." 

Nancy vented her own internal pressure. "If she stays close enough to the surface, there'll be another chance for a rescue... but we again face the decision of sinking her ourselves when the really deep water is reached. Which won't be long now." She eyed the map on the wall. The fleet was almost nudging up against that spot of ocean earmarked as ideal for a nuclear submarine's final resting-place. "Or if the torpedoes let loose." 

"I have another point to raise, ma'am." Hyde's tone made it clear that this was not good news. "No matter how we do it, any attempt to reach the President will have to involve opening at least one interior hatch, and probably several. Which will let in even more water. And I can't say for sure what is the point of no return." 

Silence. 

"What is Hotspur doing now?" Hoynes inquired next. 

"Admiral?" Hyde must have turned to consult with the real authority present. 

Fitzwallace probably stood several feet off, overseeing the entire operation, but his voice carried easily. "They can't force the ASDS silo's access hatch without blasting it open, and the explosion would endanger the men on the other side - as well as risking a power flush. Besides, they can't simply let missile control flood that way while they try to bundle the President into a basket. Nor can they haul him up through the resulting torrent in any event. The only reason Lieutenant Jeffries made it is because the silo filled to capacity. He never would have been able to climb out against that inrush of water, air tanks or not." 

"Some _positive_ thoughts would not be amiss right now," Nancy observed morosely. 

"We have the framework of a new plan. The SEALs are going back through the hole into the forward torpedo bay. They aborted when the silo hatch blew, of course, but the aperture is still there. The fire has to be out by this point. If they can penetrate the boat's interior and reach the missile compartment, they might be able to communicate with the captives." 

Hoynes frowned. "For what purpose?" 

"We want to get silo access codes through to Butterfield, so that he can blow another one open for us." Fitz didn't wait for the exclamations of sudden understanding. He sounded downright eager to pursue this possibility. "Commander Hyde has those codes, and the aft silos are still above water. We don't dare force the external hatches; one more shock or energy spike will finish 'Navy One' for good. But we can drop a basket down a regular missile silo and get both of them out in a hurry." 

Glances flew around the chamber. This just might work. 

Hoynes ground his teeth. "It sounds almost _too_ easy. Just like _last_ time." 

THE WEST WING 

"They've got one of the choppers on the scene again, and I can see men in the water. I guess they have to dive to get to the hole in the bow. Which means they must have to swim uphill once they're in." Toby exhaled. "Glad it's not me." 

Will leaned on Josh's desk and stared at the phone as though he could see straight through it to what was actually happening. "Can you describe the sub's attitude?" 

"Somewhere between unhappy and manic depressive. Almost half the bow is submerged. The Fairwater looks like a silhouette of the Tower of Pisa." 

"My, you're really going Navy on us." C.J. sat on the sofa - not leaning back, but perched on the very edge, ready to move at a moment's notice. Her light choice of words could not completely mask her pervading tension. 

"God forbid," Toby almost growled. "What I wouldn't give to wipe all this jargon, and all these _memories,_ right out of my mind." 

"We hear you," Josh contributed, a lot less flippantly than was his wont. He sat behind his desk, but nothing in his manner suggested authority now. 

"Where's Zoey?" After that last bombshell in the First Daughter's presence, Toby was taking no chances this time. 

"In your office," Will supplied. "She's got the First Lady and Elizabeth on the line." 

"Good. They need each other, and they need the privacy." 

Josh shifted nervously, his chair creaking. "So do you know what's going on, exactly?" 

"I don't think these guys would take well to a Q&A session at the moment." Frustration vibrated in Toby's voice; he never did react well to not being in the know. "I heard someone mutter something about wonky trim tanks..." 

Everyone in the room looked at Will. He shrugged and obliged. "Trim tanks are located all over the sub. They're interconnected. Water is pumped from one tank to another in order to keep the boat on an even keel, no matter how fast she's moving or how high the seas. If the system breaks down, then there's no way to prevent a list in _any_ direction." 

"Talking about a list, the stern's sticking way the hell up in the air by comparison. The tugs should hitch onto _that_ end instead," Toby postulated sarcastically. 

"Wouldn't work. She's not streamlined _that_ way." 

Josh grunted. "Of course not. That'd be too easy." 

"I sure hope the President and Ron don't find the floor _too_ sloped," C.J. almost whispered. 

The three traded nervous glances. Good thing Zoey _wasn't_ present... 

"By the way, Toby," Josh said next, "I'm glad you're sticking with _us._ The Situation Room hasn't thought to fill us in for ages." 

"I just had a thought," Toby suddenly announced out of nowhere. "You guys mind if I bring a friend to the phone?" 

The trio exchanged looks of amazement. Toby had made a new friend? That sounded jarringly unlike him. It also seemed to be a complete non sequitur. Knowing Toby, though, this had a definite purpose... 

Josh spoke for them all, as much out of curiosity as courtesy. "Go for it." 

For a few moments there was silence, and then they heard approaching footsteps. 

"Okay," Toby resumed. "I want everyone to introduce themselves." 

This went from curiosity to weirdness. An uneasy pause fell - then Josh assumed the lead. Technically, it was his place. "Josh Lyman. I'm White House Deputy Chief of Staff." 

C.J. rolled her eyes and decided to cooperate. Whatever was going on, they'd find out soon enough. "C.J. Cregg. White House Press Secretary." 

Will hesitated. Sometimes he still didn't feel like he quite deserved to be here, holding down this vital job, wearing this honored title. "Will Bailey. White House Deputy Communications Director." 

Pause. 

"Go on, kid," Toby encouraged with surprising gentleness. 

A new voice finally came over the line: a very unsure voice. "Johnny DeSoto. Reporter." 

With a job like that, his reluctance made perfect sense. He'd just made himself known to the entire West Wing Communications Department. And everyone knew what a warm and fuzzy relationship the White House had with the media. 

C.J. reacted first. She had selected him for the tour; his name had meant more to her than it did to the others. "Johnny! Glad to hear you made it out." 

"Uh... thanks." That hesitation paid full tribute to those who _hadn't_ made it. Yet. 

"Hang in there, John. It's all right." Toby really did sound like he'd developed a soft spot for this journalist. Then again, they'd shared the dangers together. "You see, I wanted you guys to go first for a reason. I didn't want Johnny here to think that I was trying to trick him in any way, that I was hiding anybody on the other end." 

That had been considerate of him. But why did he feel the need? 

"The President gave us all a very specific instruction earlier." Had there been the merest hint of a tremor in Toby's voice that time? He pushed on swiftly - perhaps to hide it. "He doesn't want any attempt by anyone to restrict the way Johnny chooses to report on this. Johnny went through it all with us, and we trust him. Now Defense will probably want some say; you know, in the interest of military secrecy and all that... but I want Johnny to know that there will be no censorship at all from the White House." 

Silence. 

This time C.J. acted as spokesperson. "Of course not." The President's word was law. Often literally, of course, but even more often from pure loyalty. 

They all silently echoed the next sentiment: may it not be his _last_ word. 

Someone knocked on the closed office door. 

Three heads rotated at once. 

Will, the only one not seated, went over and opened it. 

Donna stood there. Beside her was a woman in her mid-forties, tastefully attired, her hair swept up in a bun... her face pale, yet steady. 

None of the three senior staffers had ever seen this woman before. Yet something in her manner captured their undivided attention. Josh and C.J. rose together. 

Donna tried to smile... and failed. 

"This is Marian Butterfield." 

NAVY ONE 

"I wonder if this is what Death Row is like. Wait to die... wait to live..." 

"No idea, sir." 

"Well, there's always an opportunity in every occasion to do a bit of research." 

Bartlet had to be in considerable and increasing pain, but he remained fully lucid. He'd even crossed his legs at the ankles and propped one arm behind his head. The fact that he was able to do either spoke well for the condition of his spine. It also made him look less like an invalid: almost indolent, and totally at ease. 

His humor, of course, could not be conquered by anything. 

Ron paced constantly, pushing his own circulation, staving off his own health risk. By contrast, humor would be his last thought. He never moved very far from his prostrate leader, and he was always on the alert for any change in the executive condition. 

Now he paused, listening. "Your breathing sounds a bit irregular. Is the pain worse?" His flat, almost clinical tone disguised the concern he had to be feeling. 

The President contemplated. "Actually, it's going down." 

"That's not necessarily a good sign. The internal bleeding _won't_ be going down, you can bet." Ron knelt and placed one hand on the still-damp trouser leg of The Man's uppermost shin. "Your legs feel numb, don't they?" 

"Yeah, that annoying tingle is finally in retreat." 

"I hope that's from the cold and not delayed spinal damage after being rolled about. On the other hand, hypothermia is just as dangerous." 

" _Love_ your bedside manner." Bartlet refused to sound worried. In fact, he sounded quite relaxed. Maybe a bit _too_ relaxed? "Since we're stuck here anyway, the numbness seems to me like the lesser of two evils." 

"That depends upon the rescue timeline." Ron looked even more grave. There was no way to correct The Man's condition without an external heat supply; he'd just continue to get colder and sleepier... until he couldn't fight it any longer. And when he stopped fighting... 

Would Ron be forced to sit here and watch his protectee die? The leader he'd sworn to protect with his _own_ life? And be utterly unable to do one thing to prevent it? 

And then die slowly himself? 

He rose and started pacing again. It kept his blood flowing; when action became possible, he'd be ready. It also combated his growing sense of helplessness. His job insisted that he be the last one to show emotion. Emotion delays reflexes. 

"The mean depth of the Atlantic Ocean is twelve thousand, eight hundred feet." The President might have been talking to himself, or he might have been lecturing a town hall. His quirky and brilliant nature always evinced an interest in obscure information. 

"Two and a half miles straight down - and that's just the _average._ At that level, the water pressure is three tons per square inch. Think of placing a man between two huge sheets of metal and then running over him with a locomotive. A large Styrofoam cooler would be crushed into the size of a beer can. There are only four submersibles in the world capable of going that deep. Oceanographers call it 'the seventy-thousand-ton sky'. Which is appropriate: 'Atlantic' comes from Atlas, the Titan in Greek mythology that held up the weight of the heavens." 

Ron had to stop and just look at this man. Of course, almost any reaction in a crisis is better than hysterics, or defeatism. Bartlet had already applied calm intelligence, methodical thinking and upbeat optimism toward getting them out. Despair had no place in his world - not even now. Unable to act, he passed the time with scholarship... and, of course, humor. Even so, it took a very well-grounded soul to be able to muse and joke like this, while in pain, and when their odds of surviving got worse with every minute that crept past... 

"Did you know that the Atlantic is supposed to be getting smaller? It's been pushing the New World away from the Old since the beginning of time \- and I personally can get behind that symbolism just fine. But then I read the other day that some scientific fruitcake is convinced the global migration of tectonic plates has done an entire about-face. Like _that's_ going to happen! The Pacific had better make up the difference by getting bigger." The President adopted a sardonic air. "Who knows? If we don't annihilate this planet first, it just might wind up with one big proto-continent again - right back where it started." 

"That would facilitate travel," Ron observed dryly. 

"And wars. The oceans are the only buffers we have left. " Bartlet sighed. "Then again, with the advent of ICBMs, those buffers are nowhere near big enough anymore. Gotta love the inventiveness of the human race. Hell, why else are _we_ in this mess right now?" 

He sighed again, sounding very tired... even lethargic. Ron's worry became more visible than ever. 

"Interesting that you know so much about the ocean, sir." 

The President raised a suspicious eyebrow. "It's not often that other people _also_ show an interest in extraneous topics like this. Most of them consider it a waste of energy, rather than a tool for sharpening the mind. Funny how _you're_ so fascinated right now, Ron... After all, you always have more important things to focus on. Yeah, I've got your number - but don't worry. I'm not going to doze off on you." 

Of course he knew full well what was happening to him, and his constant talking did help combat the growing desire to just be still and rest. In fact, it might be the only method he had left. Besides, he most definitely did not want to leave Ron alone while he slept. 

Following up on that determination, he searched for a new subject. "Damn. I shouldn't have mentioned beer earlier. Now I'm thirsty." 

Someone who didn't know this Chief Executive would be convinced that he was completely mad, or delirious. Someone who _did_ know him would find his consistent wit vastly comforting. It guaranteed that he was still hanging on. 

"Well, that just gives us one more incentive to get ourselves out of here, huh? What's your favorite brand, Ron?" 

The senior agent couldn't help it this time: he shook his head ruefully, and cracked a small yet definite smile. It was an expression of incredulity and honest admiration. 

"Whoa." Bartlet had spotted that historic lapse. "After all the battles I've fought with Congress, the press, other nations, my own staff, my own _family,_ and I can't remember who else, I've finally accomplished the impossible." He looked absurdly pleased with himself. Anyone who could out-stoic Ron Butterfield was entitled to some pride. 

Then he segued into a more somber topic. "You can bet that the press coverage is not spending much time on the fact that there are _two_ men twiddling their thumbs down here." That idea plainly bothered him. 

Ron shrugged it off and resumed his pacing. "Perfectly understandable." 

"But not perfectly _acceptable._ I don't like casting a shadow over everyone else around me. It diminishes their contributions, and gives me more credit than I deserve." This national leader always had been up-front about the value of the backstage people supporting him, and the security people protecting him. He couldn't possibly function without any of them. 

These two men had more in common than most people realized. Both were in genuine peril every minute of their active duty... which for the President, of course, meant twenty-four hours a day. And both accepted that peril in order to help others: either by leading, or by protecting the leader. 

They also shared a natural concern for each other. Bartlet had seen agents injured before while protecting his life - Ron among them. It didn't bother him so much that his opinions and his policies could make someone violently angry with him. However, it haunted him that these dedicated Treasury employees might be forced to give their lives if such a person decided to turn that violent anger into violent action. 

Ron didn't normally spend much time dissecting the import of his duty. He had applied for this job, trained strenuously for it, and was determined to do it perfectly. He philosophically accepted the fact that his life was worth less than the man he followed. _His_ fear sprang from the thought of failing in that duty, just when his protectee needed him most. 

"It's all right, sir. I work better from the shadows anyway." 

"Maybe, but you shouldn't _live_ in the shadows." The President mulled this over. "For example, I've never met your wife." 

Ron's lips tightened. That must have been one person he'd tried desperately not to think about from the very beginning. 

"A shortcoming that I plan to rectify as soon as we get back to Washington." Assuming they did, of course. "She must be quite a lady." Bartlet adopted that endearing attitude he usually reserved for special confidences with his closest people. "I figure any woman crazy enough to marry you would get along great with Abbey. _Her_ sanity has been questioned more than once since the day she married me." 

The agent kept his features carefully sealed, yet the discomfort was there in his voice. "Mr. President, this is not an appropriate conversation..." 

"Hey - we're equals here, remember? Besides, it's not like we have much else to do." The Man's tone became even gentler. "And she must be every bit as worried about you as Abbey is about me." 

Any common citizen who saw the First Couple only through the news still knew how devoted they were to each other. But the President did not want to dwell on his own life, public or private. The whole world took a peculiar pleasure in doing that for him. He kept his focus on the other man trapped here - who should not receive any less consideration. 

Silence. Then Ron allowed the professional mask to slip just a bit. 

"A bodyguard has to accept the risks; so does his family. He also has to leave the job behind when he goes off-duty." 

Easier said than done, when your job demands that you put your life on the line every single time. What can it be like, going to work each morning - or seeing your spouse off to work each morning - and wondering if this might be _the day?_ The _last_ day? 

"Marian understands that. We discussed this when I was transferred to the White House." 

"She may understand, but it can't be easy." Bartlet truly understood as well. He and Abbey had held their own heart-to-hear talks on the same risks - from the other side of the mirror. She felt the same apprehension and resignation towards the danger that his national duty forced him to run. Still, Ron and Marian couldn't have quite the same kind of relationship as the First Couple... because Jed needed the bodyguard, whereas Ron _was_ the bodyguard. Also, because Jed was who he was, Abbey could become a target herself. 

"I'll bet she's always really glad to see you come home." 

"Yes." Ron stared into the distance, no doubt reliving some of those reunions. 

The President smiled. "Okay, then - all the _more_ reason to get you out of here!" 

Ron reflected that expression. The barriers essential to his job had come down. "No argument from me." 

The executive smile broadened. "Twice in one day! No one outside will ever believe me." 

Then The Man paused, his amusement fleeing. "I have to say one thing, Ron. I really am sorry that you're stuck here as well. _No one_ should have to go through this. But I can't deny that being stuck _alone_ would be pretty awful in its own way. I do appreciate your help, and your company." 

In fact, _aloneness_ had to be one of the greatest natural fears of any human mind. 

Ron just nodded, accepting the compliment. "No one should have to wait alone." Or _die_ alone. 

"Besides, I wouldn't have anyone to joke with!" 

"I'm not complaining, sir." He sounded sincere, although whether he meant the life-and-death situation or the jokes was uncertain. 

When the dialogue petered out, the boat seemed menacingly quiet. Bartlet became restless, despite the pain it cost him. By now he had to struggle to prevent the insidious sense of deceptive contentment from creeping over him. It was a subtle and relentless attack upon both his life and his very will. 

"I wish I knew what was going on. What are they planning next? Are the SEALs trying again? How close are they? How can they even get _in_ here now? I know those guys are brave, but judging from this floor the bow must be completely under..." 

"They'll keep trying. No question of that." Ron left no room for doubt. 

"There's still a limit to the risk _anyone_ should have to run." The President settled back with a sigh of both physical and mental pain. "I really feel sorry for Fitzwallace right now. He's got to make the final decision to sink this boat." 

That would be a decision more agonizing than most people could ever comprehend. In effect, it amounted to Fitz personally executing his trapped Commander-in-Chief. For the sake of countless others, sure - but even so... 

Jed Bartlet always considered other's feelings. "If only there was some way I could spare him that." 

"That's what the SEALs are for." 

"Then they'd better hurry up, or else they'll be coming along for the ride." _That_ thought bothered him almost as much. 

For a few seconds, Ron held his breath and listened hard. Then he exhaled unhappily. The President's breathing definitely sounded more ragged than before. 

Also, Bartlet hadn't shivered for some time. That was an automatic bodily function to maintain warmth. Before, he had winced with every quiver of his abused muscles, despite his best efforts to hide it. At least he was spared that pain now - but it indicated in turn the hypothermia's advancement. 

The agent said nothing about either medical detail. Discussing them, or even drawing then to The Man's attention, would serve no practical purpose at all. 

The Man's attention had turned towards the compartment lighting. There was no end to the number of light fixtures; Sherwood most definitely did not welcome shadows. 

"You know... if by some fluke we do live through the actual scuttling of this brand-new vessel, we might have an even longer wait ahead." He did not have to specify what they'd be waiting _for._

"Depends upon what shape we're in after we hit bottom." Ron was starting to feel a bit fatalistic himself. With each passing heartbeat, both men found it harder to believe that they were not going to die. 

"True. There's maybe a few days' worth of air in here, assuming we don't spring another leak or two. Meanwhile, no food, no water - not to drink, that is. Eventually the power will expire, the lights will go out, and the heat will bleed away completely." This was the strongest argument for failing presidential health yet: the death of Jed Bartlet's positive outlook. 

He sighed weakly. "Might be better to open that front hatch after all." Better to drown, or face the radiation - faster, and marginally less painful. 

Ron had nothing to offer against that bleak yet accurate observation. 

Then those blue eyes swiveled his way. All through this crisis they had never lost their roguish twinkle for long; now they studied him more soberly than ever. "On the other hand, I just remembered that we do have _one_ other escape exit available after all." 

Ron stood motionless and stern, meeting this azure gaze steadily. He knew full well what the President meant. 

"I already thought of that, sir." 

His normally-invisible, large-caliber automatic pistol had occupied its shoulder holster in full view for hours, totally forgotten, totally useless. Until now. 

Bartlet glanced away, surfing his memory. It seemed to take longer than usual: another signal of his deteriorating condition. "I remember reading about a past President - was it Nixon? Damn, I forget which one. Anyway, he once asked the head of his detail what the agent would do if they were suddenly attacked by terrorists. With a straight face, the agent replied, 'Well, Mr. President, you know that I carry a gun that has six bullets. I would probably get five of the terrorists, but my orders are not to let you be taken alive.'" 

In the next silence, both men could hear the seawater sloshing not far away. 

Ron spoke slowly. "Yeah. Every agent in the White House hears that joke." 

Except that it suddenly wasn't a joke anymore. 

Nowhere in any job description anywhere in the Secret Service would anyone find such an ultimate duty laid out in writing. Surely, never before in his most horrendous nightmare had this particular bodyguard ever suspected that one day he might actually consider such an appalling course of action. 

For the sake of mercy. 

Because _not_ taking that course would be infinitely worse. 

Suicide is anathema to many people besides Catholics, and indeed runs counter to every basic instinct for survival. On the other hand, one could make an argument against dogmatic devotion when confronting the final extremity. A human, _any_ human, in such a situation and with death so very close, has to face all factors with all honesty. 

Euthanasia... now that has its own totally different emotional entanglement. 

Bartlet must have read all of this from the new strain in Ron's own vision. He did not blink. He might well be lying helpless before the man who would shortly kill him, but he showed not the slightest concern. His trust in Ron's judgment was absolute. 

"Remember what I said about Fitzwallace earlier? About how he'll have to press the button himself? I don't wish that on you either, Ron." 

Somehow Ron's expression didn't change, but he did swallow carefully. "I know." 

He had drawn down on people before - but always they were lawbreakers, and direct threats to either his life or someone else's. To murder a man in cold blood... especially _this_ man... even for the most altruistic of reasons... 

_One_ thing could be guaranteed: it would be the very _last_ option: when rescue was utterly impossible, and the only alternative left was a lingering death. 

The President's voice became even softer, and not only from his ever-deepening exhaustion. "I haven't given up on God's hand in this just yet. But I know I can depend upon you to make the best decision... no matter what." 

Talk about laying your life in the hands of another... 

This soul-wrenching conversation had so enwrapped them both that at first the faint, tinny tapping didn't register. 

Then Ron turned. "Do you hear that?" 

Bartlet needed a moment to follow his lead. His mental processes were getting sluggish at last from the infiltrating cold. "Hear what?" He tried to angle his head for better audio reception, and failed. 

The sound was soft, and slow - but certainly proximate, plainly metallic, and undeniably patterned. _Tap... tap... tap... Tap. Tap, tap... Tap, tap... tap, tap._

"S-E-A-L," Ron announced in definite triumph and - just maybe - joy. "It's Morse code. They're here." 


	16. All Things Being Equal 16

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

U.S.S. HOUSTON 

"You've spoken with the CMO?" 

"Yes, ma'am. Sickbay is ready, and New York Memorial is standing by with a trauma team. All they need to know is that we're on our way." 

Morino hesitated. His choice of words had implied, unintentionally, that there was a chance they wouldn't be going. Which in turn implied that they might not have a casualty to transport at all. 

Abbey nodded solemnly - agreeing with both the plans and the unspoken sentiment. "You should remind the Admiral that air space has to be cleared when the President arrives." She used "when" very deliberately. 

"Good point; I'm not sure if the air traffic is still grounded. As for the life-flight itself, I recommend 'Marine One'. Not only is it armored, but it's got the most floor space." 

"The Secret Service will endorse that, I can tell you." Then Abbey paused, remembering something. "Wait - does it have enough room for _two_ casualties?" 

Morino got her drift at once, and his face fell in uncertainty. 

"Two casualties, Colonel. I know your first duty is to the President, but Ron's not going to just walk away from this without a scratch. If 'Marine One' can't handle both, then you'd better have a second helicopter ready." 

The executive physician drew himself up. "I'll get right on it, ma'am." 

"Thank you." 

Charlie had waited until this professional conversation ended; now he came over. "How are you doing, ma'am?" 

Abbey exhaled and leaned against the nearest bulkhead. They stood in an almost-private corner of the bridge. "In a way, better than I'd dared hope. But then, military doctors tend to cut me more slack these days than the civilian ones." 

She turned her head aside, a tiny smile playing about her lips. "Funny thing is, before I yielded up my license, it tended to be the other way around." 

Charlie almost grinned himself. "These guys are pretty protective of their Commander-in-Chief. At times like this, I guess not much else matters." 

"Then let's be grateful for whatever advantages come our way." Abbey rotated back. "Ellie's staying on the phone?" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"Good; Zoey and Liz need the contact as well." Both glanced at the Captain's ready room, directly across the bustling bridge area. It had been graciously offered for the exclusive use of the Bartlets. 

Donnie stood at attention outside its closed door. Considering that they always saw him in a standard dark business suit, he looked downright scruffy in service blues - especially beside the other agents who had accompanied the First Lady here. 

Abbey moved away from the wall, towards the window. Towards "Navy One". 

_Everyone_ on this ship looked that way every chance they got. 

"Ma'am?" The personal aide's voice checked. She raised any eyebrow, waiting. "Can I ask something? But I don't want to make this even worse for you, or -" 

Abbey's expression took on a maternal softness. "It's okay, Charlie. Go ahead." 

"Well..." He wrestled with words for a moment, then gave up. "What do you think the President's chances really are?" 

A portcullis of self-control descended with an almost audible _clang._ Suddenly it was a doctor who stood here - not a mother, or a wife. 

"I'm sorry..." He backed away. 

"Don't be. I'm the one who said it was okay." Her tone leveled out, keeping things remote and factual. "And it _is_ okay. You should know." 

Pause. Again she gazed out the window. 

"Supporting him properly is not a problem. It's actually easier to move a casualty through water, because the human body has some buoyancy of its own. The first priority is air, of course; after that, the SEALs will be able to float him into the basket without jarring. If they're completely submerged, then they just guide the basket along until they reach the surface. These rescue tools have their own ballast controls. When they need buoyancy, they activate the floats. Since the casualty has his own air supply, they might need ballast instead to maneuver through underwater corridors. Except for the time element, it's straightforward." 

Her carefully controlled tones belied the emotions boiling just beneath the surface. She had probably been running through the entire scenario in her mind over and over for ages now, unable to stop doing so. 

"And the _cold_ element," Charlie almost whispered. 

"And the cold." Abbey shivered as though _she_ felt the chill. 

"They're _not_ gonna have much time." 

"Not much time at all. As if the cold wasn't enough reason to hurry, there's the little matter about sinking that sub before it sinks _us._ " Abbey's teeth bared in a snarl. "It's almost as though someone wants to make _sure_ we're not inclined to dawdle over getting Jed out safely." 

Charlie must have noticed her slip from her husband's title to his name, but he chose not to comment, waiting patiently until she swung back on topic. 

"If they don't get air tanks in there _very_ fast... It's a lot harder to hold your breath in freezing water than in warm water. It's almost impossible to hold your breath with cracked ribs. And trust me, you don't want to apply CPR to a person with rib injuries. If one breaks, it'll be like a knife _inside_ the chest cavity." 

She had to pause for a moment to re-secure her emotions, to re-engage the medical, dispassionate mode that was her only remaining foothold in sanity. 

"This may sound callous, but for his sake I hope he loses consciousness early in the proceedings. Traveling underwater, tied hand and foot, unnatural breathing apparatus, almost no light... It's going to be a very unpleasant experience. If he hyperventilates... Then again, if he blacks out _before_ they can get the air to him..." She paused again. "There's just no way to correct either condition until they reach the surface." 

Abbey swallowed, forcing down a wave of the most primal terror. 

"The ribs, the spinal trauma, the internal bleeding... even an intake of water... they can all be treated, within a reasonable amount of time. The hypothermia is the _real_ problem. In his condition, that alone can kill him." 

Charlie flinched. 

"Or, it might help slow down his bodily functions - heartbeat, respiration - almost like a kind of suspended animation. If it doesn't go on too long. It's dangerous, and it's harder on adults than on children. With children, their hearts and even their brains can be totally non-functional from the cold, and they can still be revived. Adults can't go that deep and survive." Abbey had barricaded herself behind facts, walling out all personal contact with the subject. "But for short periods, it actually might work in our favor." 

"Still doesn't sound pleasant," Charlie muttered. 

"Think of it as a cold 'sleep' that you can't fight, no matter how hard you try." 

She sighed heavily, and the professional armor cracked. "Unfortunately, my husband is not the best textbook case around. He probably never has been. Due to his _other_ notable health problems, he'd deal with stalled brain function less well than even the average adult." 

She fell silent, staring out across the waves, blinking rapidly. Charlie inched a bit closer, offering his support without cumbersome words. 

"Mrs. Bartlet?" 

They revolved together. DeSoto kept his distance, obviously torn between a natural reluctance to bother her and an overwhelming need to speak with her. 

Charlie performed the introductions. "Ma'am, this is Johnny DeSoto." 

"I know." Abbey offered her hand. "I'm glad you made it out." She meant it, too; this was not the empty sentiment of a public figure. 

"Thank you, ma'am - although I still can't forget how much it hurt to leave the President behind." Clearly DeSoto meant _that;_ this was not a put-on to a public figure. 

"It's kind of you to say that." 

"It's true. First time I've even seen him up close, but I really got to like him." The journalist shuffled his feet in embarrassment. "Anyway, what I _really_ want to say is... I'm a reporter. But I want you to know that I'm not _being_ a reporter." 

As he stumbled over how to word this, Abbey actually smiled. 

Finally he just had to blurt it out. "The President's never met me before, but he treated me like an equal. Almost like... a friend. Ma'am, I want to be here with all of you, through all of this. Not as a reporter. Just as a friend." 

Abbey's smile grew. "'Just,' nothing. Of course you can stay. Good to have you along." 

Some distance away, Hyde and Lung stood by and watched the activity around them. Despite being naval personnel themselves, they were not needed to help run the "Houston". Quite frankly, they were not needed at all. 

Captain Ojeeb detached himself from his crew and approached. "Commander." The courtesy rank of "captain" when aboard your own vessel did not apply to Hyde any longer. 

"Captain." They exchanged salutes. No matter how dire the moment, protocol held true. 

"Herc Beta is ready to take the civilians to shore. I imagine the First Lady will insist on staying, but we can shuttle everyone else out of the danger zone at once." 

Hyde blew out in amusement. "Good luck getting them to evacuate, sir. No way will they leave their President now. They're not thinking about themselves at the moment." 

Ojeeb did a classic double take. "Well, they'd better think again. That boat could still blow at any second! It's the only sensible option -" 

"Won't matter to them; they've _got_ to be here." The skipper of the "Callanan" stood stiffly at attention. "No, sir, I can't say I'm with you on this. The Lieutenant and I have worked and suffered with these people. We know how they feel. I'd support any decision on their part to stay. I hope, sir, that you will as well." 

Lung mirrored this proper stance, in full agreement. Ojeeb stared at both for several seconds, clearly wondering what had gotten into them. He could not have anticipated opposition, especially from his fellow sailors, to the sensible decision of transporting all civilians away from this impending disaster when they had the chance. 

Then he gave up trying to understand. Besides, he wasn't hard-hearted. Regulations didn't really apply here. If staying meant that much to the rescuees, after all they'd been through... "Very well." 

Leo turned up at that moment. His blue outfit blended with the lower ranks. His war experience always subconsciously reasserted itself whenever he moved in military circles. His quiet air of authority from standing right beside the most powerful man in the world could be picked up by almost anyone. It was the anguish in his eyes that did not fit. 

He nodded to Ojeeb, as one would acknowledge the master of the ship. He nodded to Hyde and Lung, as one would greet comrades in arms. Then he headed straight for the real operations center, where all the information - and the verdicts - could be found. 

"Leo. It's good to see you." Fitzwallace did not mention that the Chief of Staff looked like death warmed over. 

"No." Leo's retort was flat. "It's _not_ good." 

The Admiral nodded slowly. "I think I know what you mean. I'd rather be over there with him, too. That way we'd _know_ how he is, and we'd be on hand to help." 

"At least he's not _totally_ alone." The pain factor mounted in Leo's vision. "God, if he had _no one,_ I know I'd go crazy." 

"So would he. That's why solitary confinement is such a severe punishment." 

"Well, if he had to be with someone else..." 

Fitz almost grinned. "Someone besides you or me?" 

"Yeah. Ron's the guy." 

Leo fastened on the sub plans... on the compartment marked "missile control." Mere words and pictures on paper: such a poor representation for the manifold barriers separating him from his dearest friend. 

"Ron was right." Guilt hung over him like a funeral shroud. "I held up the evacuation." His voice could barely be heard. "If I hadn't, they'd have gotten out in time." He raised haunted eyes. _"It's my fault."_

"Hogwash." The bluntness and seriousness of the Admiral's tone came as a surprise. "In fact, you've got it backwards. What if the President had already been loaded into that basket when the tube filled? He'd have been strapped down, lying on the silo floor itself, right in the path of that flood and totally unable to go anywhere. A whole squad of SEALs couldn't have gotten him out of the way in time. He'd have drowned for sure. In seconds." These facts unreeled without hesitation, respite or doubt. "You delayed the rescue, sure - but you might have delayed his death as well." 

Leo pondered this positive side. Yet even so, his general attitude didn't ease. If Jed Bartlet survived, then his right-hand man would be able to assure himself that at least he hadn't been the direct cause of the ultimate calamity. 

If Jed Bartlet died... then no words would be able to convince his staunchest defender that he _wasn't_ the cause. 

Leo fidgeted nonstop; he just could not help himself. The tension, the horror of all that could still develop pervaded his very being. 

"Fitz..." he began very hesitatingly. How can anyone put feelings like this into language? "We know what's at stake here. We know what has to be done." His tone dropped. "I understand what you're going through." 

Both men looked down. The small black detonation device lay on the chart table between them. 

They knew each other well. They knew why the final duty might be necessary, and they knew what that final duty would mean. 

Fitz raised his head, his dark features set like stone. Leo looked right back, his pale features older than they ever had been before. 

THE SITUATION ROOM 

"The forward deck is now completely awash and under. Hotspur has had to close the entry hatch originally used by the presidential party to prevent further flooding." Regret at that necessary decision could be heard in the Chairman's weary voice. 

" _Now_ how do they get out?" Hoynes demanded. He wiped a palm across his sweating face. His blazer had been shed and his tie loosened. Several of the Joint Chiefs had removed their uniform jackets as well, an extraordinary occurrence. They were seated, as though determined to be comfortable so that they could work better, but he persisted in standing. He was way too uptight to do otherwise. 

"Well, all of the silos are now out of the picture. It was a good idea, but we just didn't have enough time to get Hotspur in and the captives out." Nancy regarded the sub schematics. Though as neat and tidy as always, she too remained on her feet. "I don't know what other option is left." For the first time, hopelessness crept into her attitude. 

"Fairwater." 

Nancy blinked at the phone. "Beg your pardon?" 

"The conning tower," Fitz clarified. "It's the only door that's still open. It's also closest to the reactor. This will be a different kind of risk in a lot of ways. The tower height will increase the distance needed to get clear of the boat, and it'll also add considerably to the overall time factor for a full evacuation. But its diameter can handle a rescue basket easily." 

"Then we don't have to use the hole in the bow at all?" 

"Negative. We've got to keep everyone's radiation exposure to a minimum. Hotspur can get through the torpedo bay into the interior corridors; that bulkhead is so fire-damaged that it's now possible to burn a hole with underwater cutting torches. This way they only face the spill once. Besides, it's a far more direct route, and faster." 

"Okay, then - why not take the rescuees out through the bow and avoid the radiation altogether?" 

"Because every single minute those two men spend submerged in that freezing water will count against them. Wet clothes and open air is marginally less life-threatening." 

Hoynes raised a hand. "Let me make sure I've got this straight. The SEALs take the basket in through the hole in the bow, through the torpedo bay, then through a hole they burn into the actual interior. Which, incidentally, will let in more water in the process." 

"Most of the other interior hatches are dogged, sir. The sub should still float awhile yet." 

"It damned well better. So they get into missile control somehow - we'll deal with _that_ minor detail in a minute - load up the President, and take him through the corridors, through water or radiation, to the tower. Uh, the Fairwater." 

"Yes, sir. The boat's forward half is flooded now, but not the stern, so the radiation is still intense, and it's been spreading steadily. But neither Hotspur nor the rescuees will be going through it for long, and they'll all have air. Besides, the reactor is on the lower level, and the access to Fairwater is on the upper. We'll have to take the chance of radiation poisoning against the certainty of drowning - or implosion. The President will be floated or carried along the corridors as needed, then lifted up the tower and hooked to the helicopter. In this instance 'Navy One's' cant will actually be beneficial: it's easier to pull a load up a slope than up a sheer climb. By our calculations, there's at least an even chance that all of them will get out." 

"Even odds. This is assuming we don't run out of time." The Vice President's use of "we" might have been purely automatic, but it fit. 

"Exactly, sir. Normally I'd never try an evacuation so near to a hot reactor; that's why we didn't even suggest it before. But all bets are off now. If they don't risk the radiation, they'll definitely die some other way. There's no other possible alternative." 

"So much for the mechanics of getting out of the boat," the NSA interposed, as no-nonsense as ever. "What about getting into missile command?" 

A deep breath carried through the phone. "The forward hatch was also close to the torpedo fire. If it's melted in any way, it may have to be blown open with underwater charges." 

Nancy almost gasped out loud. "Blow it open? That'll flood the whole compartment in seconds!" 

Hoynes almost did as well. "And what about another power spike?" 

"We have to chance it, sir. They can't use the aft hatch, the undamaged one; it's too close to the reactor. Taking into account the hull's shielding, deck readings have the interior radiation count nearly off the scale. Even if Hotspur _could_ use that aft hatch, it opens onto the lower level as well. The corridors are _cooked_ down there. They'd never get air to the prisoners in time. They also can't use cutting torches on the forward hatch; that would start to let the water in at once before they could cut the hinges off entirely." 

"Either way, it won't take much icy water to send the President into shock." The fear mounted in Hoynes' eyes. 

Nancy seconded the motion. "Or even heart failure." 

Silence. 

"And there's yet another risk," Fitz went on grimly. "Once the hatch is open, odds are they won't be able to close it again. The corridor contains a lot more water than Sherwood itself, and it'll continue to enter through the bow. On the other hand, 'Navy One' is still more or less on the surface. The SEALs won't have to fight pressure-induced flooding that even twenty or thirty more feet would make impossible to withstand. Depth pressure is exponential: each foot down will multiply the pounds per square inch directed against the hull." 

He paused again, bracing for even more bad news. "However, opening Sherwood will seriously compromise what buoyancy 'Navy One' has left. They'll have to work fast." 

Hoynes let out a half-snort. "Understatement of the day." 

"This is a one-shot deal, sir. A last-ditch hope. We're down to the wire. If something does spike, the boat will have to be scuttled so fast that the SEALs won't get clear either." 

"Or she could sink on her own, taking everyone with her," the NSA added. "Either to crash, or to _crush._ " 

More silence. 

Hoynes leaned forward on the table. "Okay, Mr. Chairman, I have a hard question here. How much grace can you grant if the rescue is _almost_ fast enough? The lives of the few people on board versus the lives of countless people who would be affected by nuclear fallout... The very last moments of the rescue will be when we'll all want to hesitate the most. If another power surge is detected, how long can we hold off?" 

Pause. "Well, sir, the proper answer to your question is that the moment the boat reaches the drop-off it _must_ be scuttled at once. Whether or not there's another energy flush. Whether or not there's anyone aboard." Not one shred of human emotion crossed the phone line this time. "The reactor has to be our first priority, not the people trapped inside. Even if one of them _is_ our Commander-in-Chief." Fitz might have been reading from a service manual. "And she's coming up on the edge of the continental shelf even as we speak." 

Hoynes' mouth fell open. Nancy's snapped shut. Every spine in the room stiffened. Was this it? Would it be _now?_

"Mr. Vice President, this call has fallen to me. And I choose to wait." 

A few held breaths whooshed out. 

"Unless a detonation threatens, I'll give Hotspur as much time as they need. The instant they're clear, I'll send the 'Callanan' down. In the meantime, the extra minutes will add to the depth of the ocean floor." Pause. "And it just might save me from killing someone today." 

The resulting quiet voted in unanimous favor. 

"Admiral!" A new voice blasted through the speakerphone. 

"Chief Tolkinski." Fitz acknowledged and identified him at the same time. "Report." 

"The Captain's compliments, sir - Hotspur has established contact!" 

THE WEST WING 

"How do you know so much about subs? I thought you were Air Force." 

"I've got family members who've served in every military branch there is." 

"What a way to grow up." Josh slumped forward in his desk chair, elbows on the blotter. He looked one thin inch from laying his head right down. 

Slouched in the visitor's chair, Will appeared only slightly less worn out. "Well, it has its advantages. You learn lots of neat military trivia." 

"Make sure you tell the President that." Josh's tone contained no sarcasm at all. 

"Oh, I plan to." That was a wholehearted promise, in full accord. No matter how much Bartlet's love for spouting off pointless information might have annoyed his staffers in the past, right now they'd all welcome the chance to be annoyed by him in the future. 

"Right now _I_ want to hear some of that trivia," Toby announced through the phone. "It's better to know the worst that can happen, rather than be forced to speculate. Go on, Will." 

"Well, it's pretty simplistic when you get down to it. The ballast tanks contain either air or water. Negative buoyancy is water; positive buoyancy is air. It's exactly the same thing for humans: a man floats when he's holding his breath, but he sinks when he's drowning. Rupture the ballast tanks and the boat goes down. That's what the mines on the hull will do." 

"And then what happens?" 

The resident naval advisor exhaled. "If the rescue is incomplete, anyone still inside will know it - they'll both hear and feel the explosions. Then the sub will plunge into the aquatic equivalent of free-fall. I was explaining the mechanics of this to Josh earlier. Have you ever heard of an emergency blow?" 

"Hell, yes!" his boss groaned. "The President got the Captain to tell us all about it." 

"Looks like one of those lectures is finally paying off!" Josh kidded, trying to mask the underlying darkness. 

"I'll never live it down. Besides, the procedure sounds terrifying." 

"Not as much as scuttling," Will warned. "Think emergency blow in reverse." 

Pause. "God, have mercy." 

Will nodded, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "Yeah." 

"And _then_ what happens?" Josh shared their horror, but he couldn't stop wondering. He _had_ to know. 

"Depends on where the boat is at the time. If she hits the continental slope _before_ she reaches crush depth, then she'll tumble the rest of the way. Like falling down the face of K2. She'll literally be shredded by the multiple impacts, letting in water left and right, until she finally disintegrates." 

Will rushed into the other scenario, as though fleeing from those horrific mental images. "If the water _is_ deep enough, she'll fall straight down, probably bow first. It's a smooth enough ride, I suppose, although I haven't met anyone who's actually tried it. Those on board will hear the bulkheads groan and pop as the colossal pressures of the ocean rapidly build up... and they'll know what's coming... but the instant one seam goes completely, no matter how small..." He shook his head. "Well, they won't feel a thing." 

Toby let out a long breath. "I am never going to get on a boat again. Of _any_ description." 

So did Josh. "Don't blame you." 

" _What_ are you guys doing?" 

None of them had heard Donna enter. The two actually present jerked around. She must've been standing there for at least a minute or two. 

"You should knock," Josh told her, more embarrassed than annoyed. In fact, he looked a lot like the kid caught telling a bad joke. 

"You should be boosting the morale around here, not tearing it down," she retaliated. 

"This is exactly what actors mean when they say 'break a leg.' They're wishing each other good luck." 

Donna stared at them. "And you think it's good luck to discuss how 'Navy One' is going to sink?" 

Josh shrugged. "Yeah. This way we're making sure it _won't_ happen." 

Will said nothing. Toby was suspiciously silent on his end as well. 

In any event, none of them could do anything concrete to help - and they knew it. 

Donna rolled her eyes. "I'm going to check in on Zoey." Her reference to the _real_ suffering here made her point in spades. 

She took care to knock, and to wait for permission, before entering Toby's office. 

"Hi, Donna." Zoey looked glad to see her. 

"Hi, Donna," Eleanor echoed through the speakerphone. 

"Ellie! How are you?" Then Donna blushed. "I mean..." 

"It's okay," Zoey assured her, trying to smile. "We all know what you mean. We're hanging in there." 

"I'm really glad to hear that. We all are. We're pulling for you." 

"No doubt on this end." Ellie kept her tone light; lighter than she had to be feeling. "I'll tell Mom you asked." 

"Would you? Thanks a lot." Donna paused. "Um, can I get anybody anything?" 

This time the youngest First Daughter did manage to grin. "Besides the obvious... no, thanks." Then she reconsidered. "Hey, I heard that Ron's wife is here." 

"Ron Butterfield has a wife?" Surprise rang in Ellie's voice. "Wow. That's so weird." 

Donna blinked. "It is?" 

"Well, in a way. To us." Zoey shifted in her chair, looking pensive. "We're so used to having agents around all the time... you forget they're even there. Or that they're just as human as you are. Or that they have their own families." 

"Or that they can be hurt," Donna added quietly. 

Pause. 

"It can't be easy to love the guy who's paid to take the bullet," Ellie observed softly. 

Zoey agreed. "Yeah, she can't be under any illusions of the risk." 

"Then _or_ now." 

"I wonder if she's used to it." 

"You can't _get used_ to this sort of thing, Zo!" 

"But she must've known all along that this sort of thing might happen." 

"Kind of like Mom, huh?" 

Zoey nodded, not that her sister could see her. "Point." 

Pause. 

"I should talk to her. _One_ of us should." Slowly, the youngest First Daughter got to her feet and steadied herself, preparing to accept this unpleasant task - the kind of task that would normally fall to the President. "I do hope she understands that Dad didn't throw Ron into the danger himself. But I should talk to her anyway." 

Donna offered a slight smile, of pure admiration. "Oh, I think she'll understand, all right. Especially coming from you." 

Then Josh's assistant happened to glance at the TV set - and jumped. "Hey, turn that up!" 

C.J. had just stepped to the Press Room podium. 

Zoey scrambled for the remote's volume control. 

"... still trapped inside. However, I want to quash all rumors that he's alone. I know that every radio ham on the Eastern Seaboard is doing their level best to eavesdrop on the military airwaves. I know they picked up on the fact that the 'Callanan' is still being referred to as 'Navy One', so I suppose it was inevitable that someone would panic. Yes, almost everyone was rescued. No, the President was not one of them." 

C.J. had to pause for air, and for composure. Sure enough, a reporter jumped in. 

"C.J., was the President left behind because he was already dead?" 

A gasp ricocheted around the Briefing Room, and through Toby's office as well. 

The Press Secretary stiffened, her furious glare locking that inquirer into place. "The President of the United States -" she carefully stressed the title, giving it all the respect it deserved "- is alive. He shoved one of his fellow prisoners out of harm's way, and suffered a back injury in the process. It's serious, but it wasn't fatal." 

"Then why -" 

"I'm _getting_ to it. They were just about to airlift him out when the sub started taking on more water. The only way to stop the flooding was to close the hatch through which the President was to be removed." 

C.J. paused again, and silently challenged the entire room. This time no one attempted to override her. 

"But let me repeat: the President was not left alone. Special Agent Ron Butterfield is still with him. He's been Chief of White House security for the past four years. He's one of the most experienced agents of the Secret Service, and he has Navy SEAL training as well. The President could not have a more able individual with him in a crisis." 

"C.J., is that the same Ron Butterfield who was shot at Rosslyn?" 

"Yes, I knew someone would remember that - and I'm sure you've all seen him before, since he's usually at the President's shoulder at public events." C.J. adopted a resigned attitude. "If your stations dig a bit, they'll find some archive footage." 

She refused to milk this, but the media would. The whole "loyal bodyguard" angle was just the kind of ordinary human-interest story they craved. 

"I'd like to point out something else. Ron would give his life for the President. So would a lot of other people I know." C.J. stood ramrod straight with a fierce light in her eyes. That had been a fine compliment to her West Wing colleagues, but only the densest listener would doubt that she included herself in that number. "And if it came down to saving only one person, the President has to come before any of his staff. We all know this. That having been said, there are still _two_ men trapped in that boat, and Ron deserves to be considered and rescued as well." 

"So the Navy hasn't given up?" 

" _Absolutely not._ There's still time and possibility. The SEALs are trying to get through another way, and they'll keep trying right up to the final deadline." 

"C.J., about the President saving one of his fellows -" 

The cameras caught her fleeting smile. "That's just what he did, without any thought of risk to himself. Now if it had been anyone else displaying such selfless courage, the President would be presenting him or her with a medal. I'm not sure how _this_ ceremony will work out." 

Several people grinned with her. Even so brief a touch of humor as that was heartily welcome. 

"C.J., who was it that the President saved?" 

"I'm not releasing that information yet. We've got more important things to focus on here." She probably would not be releasing that information _ever._ Toby wouldn't forgive her. 

"C.J., can you tell us what steps they're now planning to take to get the President out of the sub?" 

"I don't have the details. They must be working fast and hard, and I'm not about to badger them with questions. Rest assured that when I do find out, I'll -" 

Without warning, Carol burst into the Press Room and hurried to the podium. Everyone watching this live coverage anywhere saw C.J.'s face freeze, saw her bend sideways, saw Carol whisper in her ear. 

The message was brief. The reaction was immediate. The Press Secretary's expression was stern. She spared time for only one more announcement. "Things are coming to a head. I'll be back as soon as I can." 

Then she turned from the microphones and rushed after her assistant. Leaving Toby's office, the rest of the White House and the entire world hanging. 

NAVY ONE 

_Tap. Tap, tap... Tap... tap... tap. Tap, tap... tap, tap. Tap._

Ron stood close to the forward hatch, in freezing water up over his waist, leaning on the metal with one hand. The other held the barrel of his automatic. He listened carefully to the message from the other side, translating in his head. Then, when it fell silent, he tapped out his response using the butt of his weapon against the door. 

More taps. He answered in kind. Back and forth they went for a full minute. Then, at last, he tapped out a "stand by" and half-swam away. 

"Mr. President." 

"Hm? What?" Still reclining in the illusion of comfort on dry deck, Bartlet peered up at him lazily. 

No - not lazily. _Drowsily._ A definite symptom of slowing blood flow. 

Ron sloshed over, soaked anew and shivering so badly his teeth chattered. "We're getting out of here." 

"We are? 'Bout time. The boredom is the worst." 

"Hang on. I have to move you again." Ron took a hold of the improvised bed and gently started to drag his protectee around the nearest silo. 

"Like I have a choice -" The Man couldn't prevent a groan; even growing numbness did not damp out all the pain. 

This time they didn't have to go far. Bartlet heaved a sigh of relief when the motion ceased, and almost drifted off to sleep right there. 

The standard no-touch rule takes a hike in an emergency. His bodyguard grasped his shoulder and shook - gently yet insistently. "Stay with me, sir. I need to talk to you." 

Both motion and pain disrupted the cloying need to just rest. "Never been so tired in my life. And I haven't done anything for hours but lie here." 

"It's the shock and the cold. You've got to fight it. Just for another few minutes." Ron spoke with increasing force and urgency. "After that, we'll either be rescued... or we'll be dead." 

That penetrated the fog. "So one way or another, I'll get the sleep I need. Guess I can wait another few minutes." Bartlet made a huge effort to concentrate. "What's happening?" 

"I've only got the barest details. The fire's out, but the water's rising, and the reactor is still hot. That tells me the threat of a nuclear explosion remains high. This boat has to be scuttled, and _soon._ " 

"Then let's have at it." The President found a last reservoir of energy from somewhere. He was slipping away, and he knew it, but he wasn't gone yet. "What do we do?" 

" _We_ don't do anything. The SEALs are right outside, ready to come in. The corridor hatch has been melted by the fire, so they have to blow it open. That means a tidal wave will be heading our way, but they'll be in right after it, and they have air tanks. They're going to load you up and get you out of here." 

"You make it sound so easy. What's the catch? There has to be a _few_ of those." The executive humor peeked out once more. 

"There are." Ron had no time for jokes, even though they were a good sign of physical endurance. "They've got to get that hatch open on the first try; otherwise they'll be letting water in while they _can't_ get in. The force of the blast might tear it right off its hinges. That's one reason why I moved you behind this silo: as a shield." He paused, making sure all this was understood. 

"Like you said, that's one. Next?" 

"We're going to feel the shock of the blast - and the whole boat might as well. It could touch off the power surge they've been avoiding all this time." 

Bartlet exhaled, showing a fatalistic lack of concern. "Well, we don't have much left to lose. Go on..." 

Ron slipped off his shoulder holster, removed his weapon and laid it aside. It was of no further use _as_ a weapon; failure in this attempt meant drowning for sure. The holster itself, though, had possibilities. "There's a lot of water on the other side of that hatch. The resulting deluge will have a serious impact; plus, it'll be long-sustaining and multi-directional. That's the other reason for moving here: the silo will act as a water break." He paused. "But we're still going to have to withstand a small-scale tsunami. So I'm going to tie you down." 

This last line caught the President's undivided attention. Few things can provide more of a jolt than a phobia. "Whoa, hold on a minute. We hadn't discussed _that_ in our contract..." 

"Sir, you have to be right where the SEALs expect to find you. We can't risk you getting swept away to the far end of the compartment." Ron disassembled all of the leather holster straps, then started reconnecting them into one long length. "Besides, no one would want to be bounced off the walls and tossed about, much less someone with a back or rib injury. This will be marginally less hard on you. I may not be able to hold onto you unaided." 

He threaded one strap end through Bartlet's belt, knotted it, then tied the other end to the latch of the silo access hatch. "This isn't good, but it's the best we've got." 

The Man actually snickered. "Quite the crate of cargo, I am." 

"And far too valuable to lose. Of course, the SEALs will have to cut you loose when they're ready to get you out." 

"Yeah, sure, whatever." After all this, one more potential disaster couldn't pack the wallop it should. 

A pause - then Bartlet's eyes narrowed. "All right, I just noticed something. You keep saying that they're going to get _me_ out. Are you planning on moving in here permanently?" 

Ron's mouth quirked; no more. "Not planning to, no. But you're the priority, and you know it." 

"The hell with priority!" The Man ignored his pain in a flash of anger. "No one's sacrificing you, Ron - not _even_ you!" 

"There are over thirty-five hundred agents on the payroll. Only one Chief Executive." 

"And only one Ron Butterfield! What happened to being treated as an equal here?" 

"Doesn't apply anymore." The bodyguard was dead serious now. 

"I'll be the judge of that -" 

"Save your breath, Mr. President. You're going to need it." Ron's tone became even harder. "There's a real risk of hyperventilation. As you've already found out, when cold water hits your body, the natural instinct is to gasp at the shock. I know your chest and your ribs hurt, but you've got to hold your breath as long as you possibly can." He leaned a bit more over his prostrate protectee. "Do you understand?" 

Another symptom of hypothermia is confusion. Was any of this critical information sinking in? 

"Deep breath. Gotcha." Apparently, it was. "Let's get on with it, before _you_ catch a chill." Bartlet had no strength left for anger, apprehension or humor. 

Well, almost none. "Good thing you won't have to take that final step after all. I haven't seen any paint or markers around here, and I'd have wanted to leave a note behind for whoever might find this wreck in the distant future, so that history wouldn't start wondering if there had been a murder on board." 

For a moment Ron just had to roll his eyes. 

"I saw that." 

"Sorry, sir. I was just thinking that you've been amazingly calm throughout this whole situation." 

"Oh, that." The President grinned - if anything, calmer than ever. "I've known from the start that we'd survive. Never any question about it." 

"Really?" Not even the Special Agent in Charge could keep the mild disbelief from his voice. "Have you been in private dialogue with the Almighty all this time?" 

"Of course." Any trace of joviality had vanished. Bartlet was definitely not kidding now. 

"Well, sir, I'd recommend that you keep it up, because we're about to rely on Him more than ever." 

Ron picked up his pistol again, rose and headed back towards the front hatch. The Man could hear splashing; a low curse at the ocean's frigid bite; then a series of taps, steel on steel. Pause; a sequence of answering taps, fainter. A very brief counter-reply - and then sudden hurried splashing again. 

Dripping more than ever, Ron returned and knelt beside him. "They're counting down the last sixty seconds. When that door blows, we'll have time to grab one deep breath. Start now; try to get as much oxygen into your cells in advance as you possibly can." He suited action to words and breathed deeply himself, even as he obtained one firm hold on his President's nearer wrist and another on the silo hatch's lever. 

From the beginning, he hadn't shown one trace of fear. Now, at this very last play, with death quite likely moments away, his steady purpose set an admirable example. 

Jed Bartlet paused for one endless moment. He, too, had yet to display any fear for his own survival. He didn't start now, either. He had something much more important to express. 

"Thanks for everything, Ron." 

Without waiting for a reaction or a reply - it would only embarrass and distract them both - the leader of the free world closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. Concentrated on getting around the pain and the weariness. Concentrated on living. Then, as the last seconds ticked past, he solemnly crossed himself... and waited. 


	17. All Things Being Equal 17

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

DEADLINE 

00:01 

"Helm, all stop." 

"Helm, all stop, aye." 

The "Houston's" engines cycled down and her decks lost their deep rumbling vibration. Slowly her forward progress glided to a halt. 

Captain Ojeeb surveyed the bridge. "Exec, confirm that 'Ajax' and 'Hector' have stopped their tow. We don't want any jerks or rolling during the evacuation, and that'll start any minute." 

"Aye, sir." Pause. "Captain, the towing has stopped. 'Ajax' and 'Hector' have heaved to and are holding station, awaiting orders." 

"Advise 'Ajax' to cast off. 'Hector' will be able to hold 'Navy One' if she starts to drift west, and her own cable will be easier to disengage without the extra tension." 

"'Ajax' casting off, aye." 

"Have 'Ajax' stand off two hundred yards and wait for further orders. She may be needed if something _really_ goes wrong. At the very least she can pick up anyone who has to ditch." 

"'Ajax' standing off two hundred yards, aye." 

"And make sure 'Hector' keeps 'Navy One' bow-on to the swells! Even as low as she's riding, if she broaches to, she'll take a wave right on the flanks and send everyone tumbling." 

"'Navy One' bow-on to the swells, aye." 

"All stations stand ready. Hotspur has priority." 

A tense quiet settled over the bridge. The crew all knew the score; they practically tiptoed about despite their haste to carry out their tasks. No one wanted to make any unnecessary sound that might obscure a critical signal or a desperate order. 

The cruiser rocked gently on the waves. Along the horizon's entire circumference stretched the featureless blue-gray expanse of the second largest ocean in the world. The sky had clouded over a bit, reducing glare off the water. It also added to the ominous atmosphere. 

The "Houston" wasn't alone. Not far off, two small Navy tugs drifted as well. Near them, the lopsided black tower of the "Callanan" slanted upward - much the same way a drowning man would reach for help from God and mortals alike. 

The only visible source of that help, a military helicopter hovered almost directly overhead. Waiting. 

00:32 

The only sound in the Situation Room was the shift of bodies in chairs. The military brass did not speak. They really had nothing more to say. All the theory, all the planning, all the preparation that could be done, had been done. These were some of the most powerful men and women in the world - _literally_ powerful - and all they could do now was sit and wait. 

Some stared at the softly-glowing, highly-polished table top. Some stared at each other. Some stared at the phone near the table's far end: the open link to the "Houston". Some just stared into space. But sooner or later, each one turned to the wall projection: the schematics of the "Callanan", and the map of her location. 

This map had undergone a dramatic change. No longer did it display the condemned submarine's coordinates in relation to the coastline. Now it showed a cut-away of the ocean to scale, including where the relatively-level continental shelf plunged into an almost sheer drop. A blip of light on the surface pinpointed "Navy One's" position, and an arrow descending from that location calculated the depth directly under her. 

That number had passed the three-thousand-foot mark. More than enough to nullify the threat of radioactive contamination... but not yet enough to kill quickly. 

01:16 

Almost every member of the West Wing support staff gathered outside the office of the Deputy Chief of Staff. Usually an area bustling from dawn to well past dusk, even on relatively quiet days, right now it was almost silent - though most definitely not empty. It was packed tight with employees who didn't dare move. Among them were Margaret, Carol, Ginger, Bonnie... even Debbie, who until now had not budged from her vigil by the Oval Office. 

The White House had come to a standstill. What else could happen anywhere in the world that would matter even half as much? They all knew who was inside Josh's office. They knew that those people had a direct line to transpiring events. The door was open; they'll hear the resolution for sure... whichever it might be. 

There's safety in numbers - and in the hidden hope that a prayer, said with so many others and with all pretence dropped, would be all the louder and more likely heard. 

02:24 

Colonel Morino, caught between his past personal contact with their Commander-in-Chief, the detachment of his military training and the efficiency of his _medical_ training, did his best to put on a professional image and not add to the prevalent apprehension. Chief Tolkinski made the same effort, and managed fairly well. He was younger and less experienced with emergencies, yet did not know the President or any of the "Houston's" other civilian guests personally. 

Special Agent Donnie, lingering in the background as an agent should, came close to the same composure, but that could be chalked up to his life-and-death training. He had been _part_ of the presidential party. He did not seem quite as unflappable as his fellow bodyguards. 

By contrast, no one present looked more menacing than Commander Byron Hyde. Not only had he shared in this crisis directly, but he bore the official responsibility for the "Callanan" herself - and consequently, everyone aboard her. Whatever had gone wrong, it was still his command. The fact that his command had in essence turned upon him mattered not. 

He kept a cellular phone in hand: the open link to the White House Situation Room. It might well fall upon him to announce to that supreme authority the single greatest possible national tragedy. 

Lieutenant Wayne Lung did a reasonable imitation of his commanding officer's stance. He too knew a sailor's pain at damage done to one's own ship, and an officer's guilt at not adequately protecting either the ship or her passengers. He too felt the ache of watching comrades suffer. And he too had been part of the heart-stopping experience of having his own state-of-the-art vessel hideously transform into a nuclear prison. 

And two of their shipmates were still trapped inside. 

Reporter Johnny DeSoto stood a bit apart from everyone. He was not military, or a White House employee, or a member of the First Family. At moments like this, a member of the _press_ is all too often the least welcome individual around. However, since he first began his career as a journalist he had probably never felt less like one than he did right now. These people, some of them famous faces around the country, had long since ceased to be photo images and impressive titles. The cloak of scripted public appearances and exalted inaccessibility had been pierced; the final line between subject and observer had been crossed. They had become _real._

And he had become one of them. 

03:03 

National Security Advisor Nancy McNally stood as still as the junior officers holding their stiff vigil against the back wall, and as the armed Marines right outside. She always faced reality head-on, with cool logic and pure focus. She never hesitated to tell anyone - even the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, even the President of the United States - the hard truth about anything. And yet, someone looking very closely now might spot the strain in her eyes that no previous national emergency had quite duplicated. But then, this went beyond concern for the country. This reached to a very personal level. Even the most no-nonsense and brutally honest mind is still capable of feeling with the heart. 

Vice President John Hoynes paced slowly, as he had since the start of all this. No one who had witnessed his actions or heard his comments today could accuse him of lusting for the top job at any cost. Though he sometimes found it hard to work with Jed Bartlet, and naturally envied his position, he respected The Man as well. For all that he knew how to use politics shrewdly, even deviously, to achieve his own ends, and had in the past caused this administration some trouble, he would never have wished his boss physical harm. 

Even so, he must have felt more uncomfortable than anyone else in at least one regard: he of all people stood to benefit directly from an unsuccessful resolution. 

He knew that many individuals in this room, and many just upstairs as well, harbored at least a little hostility towards him - and without Leo's advice and support, he seemed to have no ally in sight. Yet he had come here all the same: not to prove them wrong, and not just because it had been his duty to come... but simply to do his best to help. To help bring their leader and his companions safely home. 

03:45 

Deputy Chief of Staff Josh Lyman sat at his desk, as the occupant of the office should. He might have technically been the one in charge here, but nobody present viewed him as such. He was one of their circle. He didn't belong at a higher rank or anywhere else. His features were slack \- almost dazed, as though he had erected a wall between himself and what he feared he would soon have to confront. 

He stared almost constantly at the phone on his desk: the open link to the "Houston". As nominal supervisor, he had no choice but to be first in line for the news, good or bad. 

Press Secretary C.J. Cregg occupied one end of the couch, as usual portraying both grace and poise despite the suspense. It would very shortly be her job to go before the cameras of the world and tell everyone what had transpired. That was going to be either the best briefing of her life, or the worst. She held herself very still; only the constant flexing of her clasped fingers betrayed any trepidation. 

Deputy Communications Director Will Bailey leaned against one wall, looking almost relaxed. It was, however, an illusion. He couldn't feel this emotional impact quite as deeply as his fellow senior staffers, simply because he had not been here as long, but in his tenure so far he had learned to care deeply for them all - and for their leader no less. Now he called upon all of his military training to maintain a level head, to accept the results... and to deal with whatever came after. 

He kept a cellular phone in hand: the open link to Orange County, California. The people around him here were not the only ones affected. 

Assistant Deputy Chief of Staff Donna Moss stood closest to the door, the epitome of dreadful expectation. The only support staff member present, she was also by far the most expressive - and the most empathic. All surrounding emotions found open reception in her sensitive personality. She would be there for everyone else, knowing exactly how they felt. 

Friendship has always come with its immeasurable satisfactions and its fathomless sorrows. When that friendship is combined with a respect for greatness, public or otherwise, the bond becomes a special privilege. When that friendship involves high office, privilege and patriotism combine to give personal fondness a whole new depth. 

First Daughter Zoey Bartlet curled up on the other end of the sofa, ignoring everyone and everything else. Her world was threatening to crumble away beneath her. That in itself would be more than enough... but she couldn't even be there, with family. The friends gathered around her now were very kind and supportive, and they loved her father as well... but in a very real sense she was alone. 

She kept a cellular phone in hand: the open link to Elizabeth Bartlet Weston, the one other person undisputedly entitled to instant information. 

04:11 

Communications Director Toby Ziegler was never known to wear his heart on his sleeve. He hid every emotion he could under a brusque attitude and a settled frown. When feelings in this man became visible, you knew they were intense. Right now he oscillated constantly between a scowl of fury and an expression alarmingly close to panic. Fury - that he could not do anything to end this nightmare successfully; panic - because a man he admired like no other man in the world was dying before his eyes. 

He kept a cellular phone in hand: the open link to the West Wing. His closest colleagues, who also knew their Chief Executive so well, and through them the other members of the First Family, deserved to know the unvarnished truth the moment it happened. 

Presidential aide Charlie Young had long since learned the vital skill of becoming invisible at will. It was his job to always be on hand, always helping as needed, yet remaining in his leader's wake, never noticed unless he absolutely had to be. Someone in such a supportive role might easily feel unappreciated. Instead, he had built an extraordinary relationship with his boss that guaranteed he would never be overlooked or taken for granted, a bond of trust and - miraculously - genuine friendship. 

With friendship comes protectiveness. With service comes devotion. With love comes joy... and grief. 

Chief of Staff Leo McGarry stood right beside his best friend's wife. In fact, he occupied the place of support that should have been reserved for that friend - whom he could not stop worrying about if it would save his own life. Unable to fly to the aid of that friend, he looked upon it as his duty to help that friend's wife through the very worst that might yet transpire. But was he supporting her, or was it more the other way around? 

First Lady Abigail Bartlet stood beside her middle daughter. One part of her being had been snatched from the cold grasp of the ravenous sea and returned to her safe and sound. The other part hung by a thread - a thread only one thin breath from snapping forever. As strong as she needed to be for her daughter and the others also present, she needed comfort and understanding as well. All of the emotional armor that a doctor and a public figure must build in order to function can guard only so much of the soul. 

First Daughter Eleanor Bartlet stood right at the rail. Every child that grows up with two loving parents can boast a rare and blessed dual foundation. To see half of that foundation in jeopardy while the other half remains safe is to know the greatest anguish for the first time... but it also means facing that anguish with the unflinching aid of one who feels much the same. She leaned into her mother just a bit, so that their shoulders touched. 

None of them looked anywhere but at the distant ships, waiting for the outcome of the battle for life. 

05:19 

"How can anyone know what's going on?" Hoynes broke the quiet at last; he just couldn't stand it anymore. "How can the SEALs even communicate with each other? I thought that sub is so well shielded that no radios could get through!" 

"True. And you can't speak with an air hose in your mouth, anyway," Nancy pointed out. "We have to wait until the interior unit reaches the base of the Fairwater and can shout up to the others waiting there. They'll transmit to the 'Houston'." 

"Which means the information is third-hand by the time it gets to us. If I didn't know what professionals these guys are..." The Vice President shook his head. "Damn. That also means there's even more manpower committed to this rescue than just the daredevils who swam all the way in. The ones on the periphery had better be ready to jump clear at a moment's notice. The number of lives at stake isn't going down - it's going UP!" 

05:52 

"We're all here, Sam," Will asserted. "Toby's on the other line, and he's standing right on the cruiser's deck. We'll all know just as fast as he does." 

Josh and C.J. both glanced in that direction. If they found it so awful to be stuck here in the White House, what must their former colleague feel like, thousands of miles further away? He didn't even have the comfort of waiting with friends. No one around him could share the depths of his fear, and fear shared was fear diminished. At least a bit... 

"Excuse me a moment." Donna left her spot by the wall and stepped outside. 

Every head turned towards her. No one in the corridors and bullpen made any attempt to pretend to be working. 

"Mrs. Butterfield?" 

Ron's wife had been still and silent, seated in Donna's visitor's chair and drawing no attention to herself. Now she rose. Everyone at once looked at _her._ If they hadn't known who she was before, they certainly did now. 

There had been no outcry from Josh's office, no exclamation, no _lamentation._ Therefore no news had come down. So why was _she_ wanted? 

Donna summoned a considerate smile, even amid this grinding tension. "Would you like to wait with us? You'll hear that much sooner." 

07:10 

No one could recall ever having seen Admiral Percy Fitzwallace sweat in anxiety before. Despite the almost unbelievable reach of his authority, and the staggering impact that any decisions of his could have - and often did - he was renowned for a cool head in the worst crisis. His dark skin and glinting spectacles helped obscure his expression, a distinct advantage at times. Even in _this_ crisis he looked amazingly calm and collected. However, the first trace of dampness had appeared on his face. 

He stood at the rail, just outside the open door to the "Houston's" bridge, where he could see and hear everything. His stiff, sturdy posture seemed like a rock-solid pillar of strength, grounding and reassuring the other people who had joined him for this vigil. 

He used no binoculars now. They weren't really needed; any events would be transmitted to the bridge and delivered to him at once. Besides, one hand had to remain free at all times... clutching a tiny black electronic device. 

The clock kept ticking. The rescue team worked as fast as it could, not delaying to look at that clock. Everyone else was glued to that clock, wondering at what point its long minute hand would indicate the end of the countdown. The hand was on the trigger. 

08:49 

"I just had a thought." 

Hoynes' consistency for breaking the dead quiet of the Situation Room made some of the Joint Chiefs frown. It was unlikely that he cared. Anything beat this all-pervading silence, punctuated solely by their louder-than-normal breathing. 

As usual, Nancy didn't turn a hair. She merely glanced at him, bestowing permission and showing interest - or at least welcoming the distraction. 

"When was the last time we checked on the status of the _rest_ of the world? I'd hate to think that something important is slipping under our radar while we sit here. We certainly have our hands full, but is there any trouble or _pending_ trouble that we've been ignoring for the past several hours?" 

A few members of the gathered brass blinked. How could any of them think about anything else just now? However, a lot of people both across the country and around the globe wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of such an effective political and military distraction. Even though he still had no authority under the Twenty-fifth - yet - the Vice President thought like a leader should, always watching the broad picture. 

The NSA's brows lifted. "Good call, sir. However, if something serious started happening, no matter what, no matter _where,_ the Pentagon would notice, and we'd hear about it in short order. No matter what's going on _here._ " 

Hoynes let out a long exhalation, not entirely convinced. "So we assume that _they're_ not glued to their TV sets, too. Well, who knows? Maybe this drama is captivating _everyone._ " 

09:30 

Josh's TV sets remained muted, yet on. The possibility that some piece of news might break which the West Wing _didn't_ know about only added to their worries. Glances flicked that way constantly. 

So far they'd found no comfort. There was _no_ other coverage, no other news being reported on any channel, and no other details beyond what they already knew themselves. 

By now, the stations had dug up old reel of the President's number one bodyguard, just as C.J. had predicted. They paraded their best: shots of Ron standing silent and motionless behind Bartlet at various public functions, never in the center of the frame, sometimes just a half-hidden shadow on the extreme edge... They had pieced together a few seconds' jerky video from Rosslyn of this blurred yet identifiable figure literally throwing his protectee headfirst into the executive limousine while bullets flew. They'd tracked down a perfect clip of the very next morning: the Special Agent in Charge conducting the daytime investigation, immaculate save for his bloody and bandaged hand, having seen his President safely to the hospital before coming right back on duty. One didn't need volume or words to know exactly what the news anchors had to say about all of this. 

Seated in an extra chair, Marian Butterfield kept her eyes on those images. If nothing else, it helped her to avoid all the other eyes around her now. 

The TVs also showed clips of Jed Bartlet, especially the ceremonial welcome held minutes before he walked into his submarine coffin. Zoey refused to look at them. 

10:02 

A faint, dull _whump_ drifted across the half-mile between the sub and the cruiser. A quiet, simple sound - surely not at all that portentous. 

Abbey struggled not to flinch. Ellie gripped her mother's arm, and she _did_ flinch - as though it had been much louder and much sharper. That could only have been the inner hatch's protest as it was blasted open. 

And, given the ratio between the distance and the speed of sound, that blast had to have happened at least a full second before they actually heard it. 

Leo looked stricken. Toby and Charlie weren't faring much better. Not even the officers present appeared unaffected. Fitz sucked in a harsh breath. 

Before their eyes, "Navy One's" already-tilted Fairwater shifted another few degrees off plumb, as a large volume of water was displaced and a large supply of trapped air was jarred free. 

10:04 

"The inner hatch has been breached." Hyde's voice over the phone sounded like the knell of doom. 

Every head jerked around. There had been no proper salutation, no warning - just a lethal message of six words. 

Nancy nodded shortly, clinging hard to her self-control. "So be it. Whatever happens now will be over in a very few minutes." 

Hoynes said nothing, but his hands tightened on the back of his chair. The thought of that murderously cold and unstoppable torrent roaring into Sherwood, sweeping everything before it and filling every pocket of breathing space, beat all the color from his face. 

10:05 

"They just blew the door." Toby's voice was so flat it might have been steamrolled. Clearly he did not dare to let one iota of emotion through \- the least crack in that barrier would allow the flood behind to smash it apart. 

That utterly inexpressive sentence had an instantaneous effect. Josh sat up straight in his chair. C.J., already on the edge of her seat, leaned forward as though about to spring. Will moved away from his place against the wall, holding his cell phone up so that Sam could hear everything as well. Donna locked her hands together, hard. 

Marian Butterfield just closed her eyes and held very still. 

Zoey hunched deeper into her corner of the couch, wrapping her arms so tightly around herself that it was a wonder she could still breathe. Maybe she wanted to remember that right now the two men trapped in that submarine could _not_ breathe. 

If everything didn't go _perfectly,_ her father's life would be measured in moments. 

10:28 

"Sonar! Eyes sharp! Watch for the first blip from those torpedoes!" 

"Sonar, aye!" 

It was so deathly silent on the bridge and on the walkway outside that Ojeeb's command and the prompt response carried with no effort. 

Fitz held the detonator, well aware of how close this could come, and how he might well be forced to trigger the mines even as the rescue was succeeding. 

Hyde and Lung stood side by side, a little to the rear, like white marble bookends. Morino and Tolkinski fidgeted just behind them. DeSoto was so tensed-up that his musculature bulged more than ever. Donnie and his fellow agents somehow maintained their stiff stances, striving to pretend that none of this affected them. 

Toby kept the phone to his ear. He looked more hangdog than ever; the last of the fury had passed, and only terror remained. Beside him, Charlie didn't look quite so young anymore. His dark features emphasized the desperate rolling of his eyes. 

Ellie counted softly. "Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three..." 

People talk of holding their breath for a minute or two - but unless you practice, and unless you are calm, it's possible to drown in far less than thirty seconds. If the President and his Special Agent didn't have their own air tanks by this point... 

Abbey whispered to herself in a similar fashion: "They have to have the mask on by _now._ Give him time to breathe, to recover a bit... Now move him... if the water's stopped flowing, they should have him in the basket by now... Belt him down..." 

Primitive, but so very human. By saying it out loud, by detailing what should be happening, she was trying desperately to make it come true. 

Leo held _his_ breath, fighting his own surging desire to come apart at the seams. 

11:57 

"Here's the route they have to take." Nancy pointed to the "Callanan's" schematics. "Out the hatch they just forced, then down this corridor. It's all flooded, but they can move pretty fast in fins, even with a rescue basket. Up this staircase, around this corner and back towards the stern. By rights the water should stop somewhere around... here -" she pointed again "- and they'll carry him the rest of the way to the base of the Fairwater." She sorted through these facts and presented them with astonishing sang-froid. 

"How many SEALs are we talking about on the Hotspur team?" Hoynes did his best to match or even better her iron-calm delivery. 

"Two combat units: one inside and one out. Ten men total." 

"So five are with the basket. Six, if Butterfield is in a condition to help as well." 

"If he is, then the odds go up. For _both_ of them." 

"That's still a good distance, though. How fast _can_ they move?" 

"As fast as they can. I'm not asking them to pause for a progress report." 

"No; don't do _that._ " 

They studied each other, waiting to see whose self-defense barrier would break down first. 

13:15 

Time ticked by, second by agonizing second. 

The TV announcers kept talking. Even mute, they did not look so calm either. Satellite tracking aside, they had no idea of exactly what was happening right now, and that only added to the growing sense of panic. 

Banners on the bottom of the screen scrolled nonstop, endlessly proclaiming the highlights... 

STILL NO WORD ON SAFE RECOVERY OF THE PRESIDENT 

SUBMARINE "CALLANAN" NOW DEEP ENOUGH TO BE SAFELY SUNK 

"NAVY ONE" STILL HAS TO BE SCUTTLED BEFORE IT CAN EXPLODE 

NUCLEAR FALLOUT WOULD POISON ENTIRE EAST COAST FOR YEARS TO COME 

NO FURTHER INFORMATION FROM THE WHITE HOUSE 

Everyone in the office _tried_ not to watch. With varying degrees of success, and of almost physical pain. 

14:44 

"Admiral!" Tolkinski emerged swiftly from the bridge. 

Everyone turned, not just the Chairman. This could be news on only one subject, and therefore it affected them all. 

Before any of them could jump to the _worst_ conclusion, the Chief grinned. "Hotspur just radioed in - they've just reached Fairwater!" 

"Good!" Fitz almost smiled back. Not quite. "Any sign of instability on the boat?" 

"Nothing, sir. She's holding pretty steady." 

"Instruct every man in the bow area to get the hell away from there. I don't care if they have to swim for it; _they've_ got the suits." 

That reminded everyone that two men in that procession did _not_ have suits. Toby looked away. Charlie looked down. 

Abbey reached sideways for her daughter's hand. Ellie met her halfway. 

Leo rubbed a palm over his forehead. "Dear Lord, let our luck hold just a bit longer..." 

14:54 

"They're almost to Fairwater!" This time Hyde actually allowed a minuscule note of hope in his voice. 

Nancy spun on the blueprints. "They made good time." 

"Now if only there's enough time left on the clock to airlift the basket clear before everything comes crashing down..." Hoynes could not share in any optimism not founded upon fact. "Any word on the condition of the two rescuees?" 

Hyde's positive lilt fell away at once. "None yet, sir." 

15:10 

"They should all be under the tower by now," Toby reported. "The chopper's hovering directly over it. I can't see a cable hanging, but it has to be there someplace." 

"Just get it hooked up..." Josh whispered fervently, as though invoking a spell. 

"Yes, _please_..." Fists clenched, C.J. did not hesitate to endorse that sentiment. 

"They've got to get the basket _up_ the Fairwater first," Will told them all, drawing a lot of startled looks. "By hand, all the way to the top, before they attach anything. If they tried to winch him up from below and something snagged..." 

Zoey uttered the faintest whimper. Elizabeth, who must have been listening with all her strength as well, might well have reacted in a similar fashion. 

"The angle of the tower will help," Will hastened to add. His advisory role and professional detachment had worked _too_ well in this particular company. "The SEALs on deck can pull the cable manually. And these guys are strong." 

No one asked him to continue. Their imaginations filled in the gap far too well. 

15:33 

"So close..." Leo was one step away from tearing his hair out. He checked his wristwatch - then checked it again, as though the first glance had failed to take meaning in his mind. "How can this sort of thing take so _long?_ " 

"It's all relative." Fitz checked his watch as well. 

Leo looked to left and right, as though for an escape route from this dreadful equation. "Exactly _how_ fast will that sub sink after detonation? Just how much warning to you actually need?" 

"Several seconds at least. The mines will drop her like an anvil, and she'll accelerate further with every additional fathom, but there's still a time interval. Regardless of where she eventually winds up, she has to be five hundred feet minimum below the surface before she blows completely. That's only the equivalent to her own length, but we can't get by on less. Otherwise, the water won't contain the blast, and that's what will spread the radiation. If she simply doesn't get the time to sink that far first..." Fitz shrugged with his brows alone. "Then many more people will die besides the few on board." 

"Are you likely to _get_ that much warning?" Leo persisted, his volume rising. 

"The bridge will." Fitz paused, his volume dropping. "The SEALs won't." 

"Hell. We don't _really_ know what's happening! How can we tell if they're just a few seconds from being lifted clear - or if they still have several minutes to go?" The trademark self-control of the White House Chief of Staff had deserted him at last. 

The Admiral's breath hissed out. "We can't." 

15:50 

The Situation Room was absolutely silent and absolutely still. Every person present stood stiffly at attention in their places, including the two civilians, their muscles clenching tighter and tighter with each additional heartbeat. 

They bore a frightening resemblance to the honor guard at a state funeral. 

Was John Hoynes only moments away from being declared President? 

16:39 

The West Wing office and the open spaces right outside could not have been this quiet in the dead of night with no one in sight. People stood or sat, but they didn't move and they didn't speak. Some had banded together, pressing shoulders or holding hands. Many bowed their heads and closed their eyes. 

No equipment hummed; no filing drawers creaked. Not even the phones rang. 

Everyone waited together. Hoping for the best... fearing the worst. 

17:00 

"Alert!" The electrifying shout rang through the "Houston's" bridge. "'Navy One's' reactor readouts are fluctuating!" 

"Say again!" Ojeeb ordered urgently. 

"Confirmed! Energy levels are erratic - now they're starting to oscillate - sir, WE'VE GOT A POWER SPIKE!" 

_Meltdown._

17:06 

"POWER SPIKE!" Hyde didn't have to give any more detail to get his point across. 

As a body, the Joint Chiefs inhaled sharply. Mouths dropped; eyes grew huge. 

Hoynes leaned forward, gripping the back of his chair as though he'd just been punched in the stomach. 

This must have been the closest anyone ever came in recent times to seeing panic on Nancy McNally's face. "Those torpedoes will explode for sure - and the boat's still on the surface!" 

_Contamination._

17:07 

"My God, no." Toby's horrified gasp filled the phone line and spelled everything out in spades. 

Everyone seated in this office shot to their feet. 

"There's _no more time!_ " Will's frantic translation stabbed them all to the heart. 

_"NO!"_ Zoey's young, high voice rose above all others, in the purest anguish a human soul can feel. 

_Grief._

17:08 

"She's about to blow." Fitz spoke so quietly, so deliberately, that there could not be any possible doubt as to the truth or the meaning of his words. 

He looked down - away from the sinking submarine, the still-hovering helicopter, the men visible on deck, and the men invisible below. 

Then he turned to the First Lady. She stood stiffly nearby, both of her hands holding both of her daughter's. Staring at him ever so intently. 

Was that a shimmer of dampness in his eye? 

"Mrs. Bartlet, I am sorry." 

He meant that, too. With every fiber of his being. 

Even as he met her look of voiceless horror, he raised the small black device in his hand... and with a genuinely painful effort, he pressed its trigger. 

_Detonate._


	18. All Things Being Equal 18

**All Things Being Equal**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Take four Bartlets, six staffers, one nuclear submarine - and shake hard.  
**Written:** Jul, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2003, between EOTNS and LOM 

WHERE? 

Impact - 

_COLD! PAIN! Like knives - can't breathe -_

Tumbling - pain - cold - water - need air - can't BREATHE! 

Need to BREATHE! 

Drifting... cold... pain... need to breathe... 

Dark, so dark... so... tired... 

Rest now... easy... it's easier just to rest... 

_No! Fight!_

You're tired... rest, just for awhile... the cold will pass... the pain will end... 

_Don't listen! Keep fighting!_

Relax... everything's fine... 

_Everything is NOT fine! FIGHT!_

No need to worry... take it easy... see, the pain is fading... 

_No - got to fight - got to LIVE!_

It's okay to be tired... the pain is going away... soon it'll be gone... a bit longer, that's all... 

_Don't believe! Don't stop fighting!_

Getting better all the time... just drift... go with the flow... 

_NEED to fight! SUPPOSED to fight!_

Just a little while longer and everything will be fine... 

_Got to keep fighting..._

It's been a long fight. You deserve a break. 

_Don't give up... so tired... don't give up!_

Tired is natural. It means it's time for a rest. 

_Fight..._

But there's no need to fight. The fight's over now. 

_Don't give up..._

You're not giving up if the fight is over. You're entitled to rest. 

_Don't..._

Rest is good. Rest will make the pain and the cold go away. 

_Pain... cold..._

Conflict is bad. Peace is good. Be at peace... 

_Yes... that is what I want... peace..._

Rest... sleep... even the cold is easing... 

_Tired of the cold... tired of the pain... just... tired..._

It's calm here. Dark. Still. Quiet. Soothing. Just like nighttime. Just like sleeping... 

_Yes..._

"Fight, sir!" 

Pay no attention. That noise will go away. No need to fight it... 

_Tired... why fight any longer..._

The quiet and the dark and the stillness are friends. Comforting... 

_Friends..._

That's it... just let everything go... nothing else matters now... 

_Nothing... matters..._

"Keep fighting, Dad!" 

_Wait..._

Don't wait. Don't think. Just rest... 

_But..._

Not important. All that's important now is rest. Peace... 

_No... daughter... others..._

Never mind the others. Just rest. Rest first - the others can come later... 

"Damnit, Jed, FIGHT!" 

_...Abbey?_

It's still okay. She's not far... She'll be fine there... 

_No... she's calling me..._

She's not going anywhere. You're not going anywhere. You're tired. You need to rest... 

_No. She wants me to fight._

You don't have to fight. You're safe. Safe right here... 

_NO! If I don't fight... if I give up... I lose her!_

You're not going to lose anyone... 

_I'll lose MYSELF!_

Don't fight. There's only cold and pain waiting for you... 

_And Abbey! And Ellie... and friends..._

Cold... pain... exhaustion... suffering... you don't want those anymore... 

_Don't care! If my family and friends are here, then I'm staying!_

It's not worth it... 

_Oh, yes, it IS!_

Don't make the effort... 

_Go AWAY!_

You're just going to suffer... 

_I want to be with them! Come hell or high water, I choose LIFE!_

Well done, my son. 

_Huh? Who...?_

You have endured. 

_Holy... literally..._

Now receive your reward. 

_What...? I don't understand..._

Then again... maybe I don't need to... 

It's so cold... it hurts... but still - 

To be with family... friends... that's the reward I'd choose... 

A bit warmer now... am I imagining it? 

A bit brighter now... I can't be imagining that... 

Yes, that is light... A bright light... 

Where am I? Where am I going? 

Brighter... I must be getting closer... 

Warmer... what a relief... 

But am I going to THEM? 

Shadows... against the light... 

... Angels? 

"Welcome back, Dad." 

_Dad. An anchor._

Ellie. 

At last the mist parted, the illusions dissipated, the last seductive whisper of surrender faded completely. Sensations began to orient themselves and make sense: warmth, softness, pain that had receded to manageable levels... 

And Eleanor's beaming smile. 

"You... the light I saw..." It came out only as a whisper, from a throat long abused, but he managed to be heard. 

"I _knew_ you were in there someplace!" Ellie wrung his hand in pure joy. Probably the only reason she didn't wrap him in a bear hug was because of his battered condition. 

"Yeah, you thought you could hide on us." Abbey moved into his field of view from the other side. Her smile was less broad, but no less sincere. She bent forward and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. It was a spouse's greeting, a benediction, and a reassurance for herself... to feel the growing warmth in flesh that had been far too cold for far too long, to feel a presence she'd almost convinced herself - in her darkest moments - was gone forever. 

He tried to grin back. "And this... the angel..." 

Now his wife's smile did widen, as one major concern evaporated. "Okay, that eliminates any likelihood of brain damage. So, how do you feel?" 

He didn't have to think about it. "Tired..." 

"I can imagine. Amazingly, you've survived what would have killed anyone else. No wonder you're wiped." She gripped his other hand in hers. "I've never been so grateful for that stubborn streak of yours as I am today." 

"Finally... reason to cultivate it..." He didn't have the strength to turn his head, but his eyes moved past and about. This had to be a hospital room of some sort, without any decoration whatsoever. He obviously lay in a narrow medical-type bed; one didn't need vision to tell that. He could see the sleeves of a featureless green smock on the arm of the hand Ellie held. He could hear the faint beep of life-sustaining equipment, all too familiar after his stay in GW three years ago. 

A third identity approached: a man in a dark brown uniform, a man he knew... if he could just remember the name... 

"Welcome back indeed, Mr. President. You gave us quite a battle." 

Gave _them_ a battle? He'd been fighting someone else... fighting to get _to_ them... 

"You're stabilizing nicely, though. We'll be all set to go in just a few more minutes." 

Go _where?_

Abbey must have seen the rising confusion on her husband's face. "Colonel, could you give us a little while?" 

A pause fell, and lengthened. The military doctor and the _former_ doctor seemed to be conferring telepathically over the well-being of their very important patient, and over the laws that had to be observed even at a time like this. 

Then, "Yes, ma'am." A moment later, a door quietly closed. 

"One less distraction," Ellie announced first, with evident pleasure. "Besides, the guys outside must be dying for an update." 

Her father was struggling to follow along, buffeted by questions about privacy and going places and other nameless people. He tackled the most overriding point first. "Where...?" 

Abbey leaned closer. "Just rest, honey. Don't spend your energy. You're safe and warm, and you're going to be fine." 

That kind of evasion would never work when Jed Bartlet was at his best. Perhaps his wife thought she might get away with it this time, when he was so worn out. However, those phrases sounded disturbingly like similar advice that he had received in recent moments... and not welcomed. Advice that had very nearly killed him. 

_"Where?"_

Ellie got the idea that they couldn't hide anything, or put it off any longer. "Sickbay on the escorting cruiser," she said, with just a touch of reluctance. 

Both women had anticipated his reaction. Sure enough, this indirect reference to recent events was all it took. His vision sharpened as the memories began to resurface. 

"Cruiser?" 

"Yes, we whipped you in here first to get your trauma under control. Your core temperature was critically low, but it's almost back to normal now." Abbey guarded her own feelings very closely on that matter. "Colonel Morino and the ship's CMO have both been in attendance. We'll be off to New York soon for a proper looking-at -" 

This attempt at diversion didn't work either. Jed's thought processes functioned more slowly than usual, but they kept going methodically and tenaciously. "Submarine..." 

"It was a tight squeak," Abbey admitted, still trying to steer the topic away from taxing areas. "But since you're here now, it's pretty self-evident that the SEALs got you out, right?" 

As usual, this man didn't have his own physical concerns in mind. "Nuclear -" 

"There was no explosion, no contamination. The 'Callanan' has been safely sunk, deep enough to prevent any fallout." She increased the soothing insistence in her tone, even as she gently laid her palm on his chest. This tactile contact was vital to both of them; the fact that she could feel his heart beating strongly again didn't hurt either. "Everything's fine." 

He hadn't believed that before, when some unidentified entity - either external or _in_ ternal - tried to convince him to give up and die, and he still couldn't bring himself to believe it just yet. Irrefutable evidence had not been presented. "Everyone... else?" 

"Ah - proof at last that your brain has thawed completely." 

Even Ellie smiled at that. Her parents were _so_ in tune. 

"Abbey -" Repeated delays and dodges only made things worse. He was getting worked up, his breath rate accelerating. 

"Take it easy; they're right outside. So is Fitzwallace. All well, and all very glad to know that you're about as indestructible as they come. Either that, or else you've used up eight of your nine lives in one go." Abbey threw that last line in very deliberately. Her husband could always be counted on to make light of dark scenarios. 

Jed refused this time, whether because of the still-lingering cold or the not-quite-vanquished pain or because he just couldn't think of anything else. "Ron?" 

Abbey shook her head wryly. This man was so unpredictable. And when it came to news - especially news about his family and colleagues - insatiable. 

He misinterpreted. His breath hitched and his eyes went wide - 

"He's fine," she said hurriedly, guiltily at causing even the first nibble of fear and grief. "He's resting right next door." She reached out and laid the backs of her fingers across her husband's cheek, as though calming a frightened child. "He's the only one who came anywhere near as close to dying as you did, but he'll pull through as well." 

Jed's whole body sagged in a relief too great for words. His eyes sank closed and his breathing leveled out. 

"That's it; just rest." Abbey brushed his tousled, still slightly damp hair. 

Ellie took her turn helping to calm him. "We've been on the phone with Zoey and Liz. Both send their love. Zoey's going to meet us in New York." 

Abbey nodded. "So will Ron's wife." 

Jed fought to swallow, to find some extra energy for his exhausted voice. "Want to meet her..." 

"Me, too. I've already spoken to her. Won't be long." 

"More travel?" From the sound of it, the idea made his bones ache all the more. 

"Just a short hop, I promise. You need more care than even the finest shipboard hospital can provide - and Ron's not entirely off the sick list either." 

"Guy must be a celebrity by now... he'll love that..." In fact, public acclaim would be just about the worst thing for any bodyguard. 

"I don't want to be the one to tell him." 

"Fine... give me the dangerous job..." 

Pause. These three family members were content to be quiet, to be with each other, during the few minutes of peace remaining for them. 

On the verge of sinking fully into this oasis of love and comfort, Jed still wrestled against his powerful desire for sleep. If he slept, he really wouldn't be with _them._ He wanted to stay - for several reasons. "What... happened?" 

No one could deny either his world-class mind or his dutiful heart. Some things just have to be addressed. 

"It can wait." Then Abbey caught the impatient flash in her husband's eye, and she sighed in defeat. "Fine. A _brief_ story." 

"Better than... not knowing at all..." he pointed out hoarsely. 

"I suppose. Well, the rescue came off pretty much the way they'd planned, but they could not possibly have cut it closer. The SEALs broke into the missile compartment, got air to you and to Ron in record time, and then loaded you up for transport. The water's support made it easier for them. The water's temperature - well, that's another matter." Abbey hesitated, remembering. "Anyway, they carried you through the sub and all the way to the tower, and were just hauling you up, when the power started to spike again." 

Jed couldn't prevent a shudder - of fear. Ellie tightened her hold on his hand, reminding him that all had turned out well. 

"Which meant that Fitzwallace had to sink that sub on the spot. And _none of us_ knew if you were out yet or not." Abbey's voice faltered at _that_ memory. 

This time Jed gripped _her_ hand, offering reassurance in turn. 

"Fitz feels pretty bad about trying so hard to kill you." 

What had it been like, having to contemplate a rescue that might actually _kill_ the person you're desperately trying to save? To know that after all your best efforts, in the end tragedy came about by your actions after all? 

"No one else could've done it. Good man... did his duty..." 

Abbey pursed her lips. "I sure hope no one has to even _consider_ that duty, ever again." 

Her husband was too spent to do more than blink in agreement. 

Exhaling, evicting the miasma of terror, she went on. "From what we've been told, those guys on the rescue team were amazing. Fortunately, all of you were in the actual tower at the time, and pretty close to the top at that - otherwise there would have been no hope. They activated the floats on the rescue basket at just the right moment, and the sub literally sank from underneath you. In fact, that basket's buoyancy saved more than just you, Babe; they _all_ held onto it when the mines blew and the water rushed in." 

Imagine: the concussion waves so near; then the steel walls of the Fairwater falling away, the only protection they had despite its danger, to be replaced by the unrelenting ocean... 

Abbey had had a little time to internalize the concept and face it at least somewhat clinically. "Once things smoothed out, they hooked you up to the helicopter's cable and airlifted you over here. The other chopper brought Ron in a few moments later. He helped all through the evacuation, and managed not to pass out until _after_ the scuttling. I don't know where he gets his stamina." 

"How is he?" Jed persisted in being _sure_ of his fellow rescuee's well-being. This went far beyond the concern of an employer for a subordinate. 

"Half-frozen, but still better off than you." Abbey smiled almost possessively. 

"That's me... second to none," her husband muttered, too weary to express his usual cocky pride but not so crushed that he couldn't at least try. 

"Got _that_ right. You'll be glad to hear that your back isn't broken. After tackling a metal panel single-handedly like Ellie tells me, you came off with only severe bruising and one cracked rib." Abbey had shifted into medical mode for sure now, all thrusters firing. "And you know how there's an up side to just about everything? Lying on those cold and damp coats for so long actually reduced the internal bleeding around your spine, which in turn reduced the pressure on the nerves. It was a very narrow margin between advantage and _dis_ advantage, but you should be back to normal before a whole lot longer." 

"Knew there was a benefit... liking the cold..." 

Ellie laughed out loud. Through thick and thin, her father remained himself. 

Something else had happened during all this, something remarkable: she and her father had grown closer. For the first time in years, they felt comfortable around each other. 

Abbey's short-lived grin included a ghost of exasperation. "That didn't keep you from very nearly drowning. Of course the rib and back pain made holding your breath a bit more problematical. Then there was the small matter of the hypothermia." 

Here she paused. "You damned near slipped away from us, Jed. Another minute at the most, in the water or even right here, and we would have had the cryogenic preservation of a dead President rather than the partial suspended animation of a live one." 

Humor can provide a formidable armor, but there comes a time when all barriers to the heart must fall. Abbey raised her husband's hand in both of hers, cradling it to her breast. "Oh God, Jed, you came _so close._ " Her voice quavered. "The medics were doing everything they could, we were all _yelling_ at you to hang in there, and for the longest time there was nothing... no response at all... you weren't even _breathing_... we were so afraid..." 

Ellie had to fight her tears again. 

"Miraculously, you held on. Hypothermia is one of the hardest conditions to fight, but you did it. You were strong enough - you won against all odds. And we all thank the Lord that you did." 

Understanding had dawned, illuminating his face. "I heard you." 

Both women blinked. 

This time his voice was husky from emotion, not exertion. "You called me back." 

Abbey found herself wresting with tears as well. 

Now a profound wonder crept into the mix. "And _someone_ was there as well... who made sure I heard you both." 

Someone who had been there with him all along. 

Neither woman challenged this interpretation. They were more than willing to believe, and to offer up their own prayers of surpassing gratitude. 

Normally Jed didn't hesitate to discuss his faith, but he never had enjoyed discussing his health under any circumstances. Besides, the combination of a close encounter with Death and another with Life was rather overwhelming. For several seconds he struggled to fully digest all of this, his train of thought chugging along despite the enormous urge to just abandon all effort and go back to sleep. Finally, he commended it to the future, when his brain would be more cooperative towards the rarefied heights of spiritual contemplation. God knew he had other worries that needed answers far sooner. 

"The nation?" 

His wife and daughter exhaled together in mild annoyance. 

"I'm waiting..." He would not be dissuaded. 

Abbey straightened in her seat. If she was going to give her own State of the Union address, she might as well do it justice. "Smooth sailing. The Vice President and the NSA are running D.C. just fine without you." 

"Good." He meant it, too. The country came before any paranoia about control issues. 

"Yes, and Josh is running the rest of the West Wing. C.J.'s been fabulous on the news. I'm sure Will and everyone else have been backing them up to the hilt." 

"No question." 

"The whole world should have the news of the rescue any time now." 

"International fan club," Ellie teased. Her father grunted weakly. 

"Local chapters, too," her mother added with a smirk. "Hoynes and Nancy McNally have already called in. Along with half the employees of the White House, or so it seems." 

This time Jed looked really self-conscious. "I'll never get any work done again... they'll be fawning all over me..." 

"Part of the cost of being liked, it would seem." Abbey didn't sound like she had much sympathy for _that_ side effect. 

"Mm." He needed another topic, fast. "Guess I got my sub ride after all." 

She probably saw right through this diversion, but went along anyway. "Guess you did. I hope it cured that craving for a _long_ time." 

"Do they know what caused...?" 

"I don't think so. The current theory seems to be some kind of computer malfunction." 

Jed breathed out in resignation. "Why do I hate computers?" 

The two women grinned widely at that. 

"Yeah, you can't trust them." Abbey had heard that argument often enough, and by now she was ready to believe it herself. "Apparently they threw the trim tanks out of true." 

Her husband arched an eyebrow her way. "You've become quite the submarine expert." 

"A new hobby. Hopefully I won't get to indulge it too often." 

"I'll tell the Navy not to build any more of 'em." 

"I _knew_ you had your uses. This kind of muscle comes in handy." 

Such light, normal, reassuring conversation couldn't keep his vision from losing its focus. The compulsion to sleep was still drawing powerfully upon him - positively, this time. Having fulfilled his duty to his office deprived him of the strongest reason to resist. 

Abbey caught the eye of her daughter, and nodded. Ellie nodded back, then gently put down her father's hand. 

"I'll be right back, Dad." 

The azure twinkle returned. "Gonna hold you to that..." 

"Right." She rose and slipped quietly out the small room's door. 

Jed couldn't watch her go from his flat-out position, so he settled for the effort of rolling his head a bit so that he could comfortably watch his wife. Being very careful not to jar him, she obtained a seat on the edge of the bed. One hand still held his; with the other she tenderly rubbed his forearm, as though to massage her own warmth into him. 

"Did Ellie tell you how she got us out?" 

Abbey's eyes narrowed in surprise. "No..." 

He smiled as only a proud parent can. "Climbed right up on the guys' shoulders... opened the ceiling. She and Charlie both. Great work." 

"I'll have to ask her for the details." 

Abbey glanced up. Ellie had just guided seven other very special people into this sickbay cubicle. In respectful silence they came to visit their rescued leader. 

Every single one of them was smiling. Until Morino stepped outside earlier, none had known if The Man had in fact pulled through... 

With his head turned towards his wife, The Man couldn't see anyone else. She didn't let on. Her growing smile could have meant almost anything. "All I've heard so far is how you came up with the idea of opening the silo in the first place." 

Jed's eyes were heavy, and embarrassed. "Aw, somebody else would've thought of it eventually..." For a man with a generous ego, who well knew his own considerable mental prowess, he still maintained a fair grasp of humility at times. 

The cluster of silent witnesses looked uncomfortable that they were intruding, and awkward that they hadn't yet been noticed. Still, the delight of discovering that he sounded normal, and the joy of seeing him alive and recovering, overrode every other concern. 

Abbey couldn't resist playing into this. "And I heard all about Toby's _incident._ " 

Toby rolled his eyes in mortification. 

Jed closed his eyes in much the same manner, and for much the same reason. "Terrific. If that gets out -" The news stations would eat that tidbit alive for sure. 

"Too late." His wife was clearly enjoying herself. 

She didn't mention, however, that Toby had saved Leo's life in turn. Time enough for that guaranteed outburst of emotion later, when her husband had strength to spare. 

"Damn. And the White House leaks like a sieve." Jed breathed deeply, still fighting the lure of sleep. Still unaware of eavesdropping comrades. "Then you make sure everyone also knows a few _other_ things. Byron got us safely into Sherwood at the start." 

The Commander stood proudly at attention. 

"Wayne hot-wired the silo that wouldn't open." 

The Lieutenant blushed. 

"Johnny gave up his camera and his film, so that we could get out of there." 

The reporter ducked his head bashfully. 

"And Leo disobeyed every order in the book. He's too loyal for his own good." 

The Chief of Staff just stood there and smiled, not the least bothered by that backhanded compliment. Their friendship thrived on a unique honesty and a _mutual_ loyalty. 

The door whispered open again at this moment, and two more people entered this small room in silence. The others parted soundlessly to admit them. 

"Oh, and Ron and Donnie both did great jobs. Above and beyond the call..." Jed projected a palpable pride in his people. 

Donnie's timing could not have been more perfect. He tried to keep a straight face, as befit his job... and did not entirely succeed. 

An additional reason for that might have been because he was providing physical propulsion for his boss. 

If Leo, Toby _and_ Donnie looked unlike their usual selves in combat uniforms, Ron in a dressing-gown and wheelchair still beat them hands down. Naturally he did not want to disturb his protectee, yet typically he refused to consider himself off-duty until he knew for sure that his protectee was well. 

Now, at last, he had that proof. The stern cast to his features, which he wore as comfortably as his business suits and loaded firearms and lethal training, softened in a way it almost never did around these people. Now at last he could lay down his responsibility, his eternal vigilance, and rest. 

The Man was losing his contest with his own sense of vigilance; the interval lengthened between each blink. Yet not even an exhaustion of the soul could smother his thankfulness. "A lot of people made this operation possible." 

Fitz and Charlie, though they had not been named in their own hearing, wore identical quiet smiles. They didn't need to be complimented in person to enjoy the moment. 

"You've got some work laid out to congratulate them all," Abbey teased. 

"Yeah... The country should know, too." Jed was probably anticipating a formal ceremony where he could declare his deep gratitude to the world. 

The grins among his visitors increased. Forget about awards for _them;_ they likely saw their leader as the best candidate of all. 

The First Lady spotted those grins, and reflected them. She twisted at the waist, about to draw her husband's attention to the fact that he could start thanking them right now - 

He beat her to it. "Knew I forgot something... Any SEALs hurt?" 

"Not a one." Conviction and relief rang in her words. 

"Praise God." That eliminated his last worry. 

"Yes, our accident-prone President was the only real casualty." 

"Not so." 

Everyone froze. _Who?_

Holding on to conscious thought with the last vestiges of strength, Jed summoned a large portion of his old resonance. They all could hear the strain, though. "The SCRAM officer. I have no doubt... he did his best, to do his duty. The fact that he failed... and died... doesn't lesson his effort... or his commitment." 

Nodding heads agreed wholeheartedly with him. 

"I need to know... is that sub a threat to anyone... or anything?" 

Abbey glanced at Fitz, who firmly shook his head. "It's not," she translated. 

A long exhalation wheezed out, and those blue eyes drifted shut. "Okay." 

That sigh blew away the last of the fear. It was over, and they had won. 

Silence fell, and some must have wondered if their Commander-in-Chief had finally succumbed to his overwhelming need to sleep and heal. Then, 

"We have to build it again. Another 'Callanan'. In tribute... to the human will to strive for the best. No matter what the dangers... no matter what the setbacks. Together." 

Heads bobbed again all around the room. Everyone could tell how important this was to him. Everyone endorsed his opinion. 

Abbey leaned close, her eyes shining. "I'd say that applies to you too, Mr. President." 

They all endorsed _that_ as well. 

Jed smiled - whether in acceptance or in modesty, no one could tell. With his eyes still closed, he looked downright adorable... 

His family and friends stood there, shoulder to shoulder, and shared in the gently exploding warmth that enveloped them all. 

They had triumphed - as a nation, and as a family. Together. 

Their leader had survived. 

Their country was safe. 

Their spirit would endure. 


End file.
